Those Who Wander
by EstelRaca
Summary: When Apollo and Klavier manage to take down a mob boss, no one is expecting the retaliation they face. Trapped between life and death, Klavier and Apollo struggle to escape old enemies with the help of unexpected allies, while their friends in the living world work to keep their bodies breathing and give them a lifeline home.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This story is set after Dual Destinies, and was mostly written before I played "Spirit of Justice". There aren't any SoJ spoilers, though it is consistent with the game (with a little timeline wibbling).

 _ **Chapter One**_

" _Objection!_ " Klavier grins, his fist connecting with the wall behind him. "Herr Forehead, are you _truly_ trying to insinuate that the witness is the true murderer?"

They're close to the end of the case—close to the _truth_. Apollo can practically _taste_ it, and it takes an effort of will not to return Klavier's grin. Why does the man have to _enjoy_ sparring with him so much, and be so obvious about it? "The witness knows things that only the murderer should know. Permission to continue the cross-examination, Your Honor."

"While I'm still trying to determine exactly where all this is going, it does seem that the defense has a point." The judge gives Apollo a small nod. "Please continue, defense. Though if it turns out this was all a wild tortoise chase—"

"Your Honor, we've moved well beyond the tortoise, and there's no chasing needed." Apollo crosses his arms in front of his chest, staring hard at the witness. "Now, Ms. Sin, would you care to repeat what you said about the victim's condominium?"

"Certainly." Assa Sin offers Apollo a smile that could probably be used to melt steel. "I said that it was a shame the victim died now, before he had a chance to see the improvements he had been making come to fruition."

"Improvements that he had been doing himself, that weren't approved by the board." Apollo draws everyone's attention to the list of approved renovations, from which Poin Less' name is conspicuously absent. "As has been previously established Mr. Less had no contact with anyone aside from his neighbor's turtle during the forty-eight hours before his demise—the time during which the renovations began. So tell me, Ms. Sin, how did you know about them?"

For a moment Apollo thinks the woman is going to leap across the intervening distance between them and attempt to kill him. Then her eyes flick to Klavier, and she crosses her arms in front of her chest. "I want to plea bargain, Mr. Rock-Star. And I've got a lot to bargain with."

"Do you not think the time for bargaining is past, Ms. Sin?" Klavier's voice is calm, quiet, but Apollo can see the glint of victory in his eyes.

"Not when I get to explain what I know." Flipping her bangs away from her eyes, Assa glance between Bass, the defendant, and Klavier. "You protect me, give me a fair deal, and you get it all."

"Assa—" Bass' voice is a clear threat, rumbling through the courtroom.

"Because you're right, kid." Assa glares defiance at Apollo. "I killed the guy, but I did it on Bass' orders, for a pretty chunk of change."

Bass' face is bright red as he stands up, his hands clenching into fists, and Apollo is glad there's a bailiff standing right next to him. "If you continue along this line, young lady—"

"You've already bungled this beyond saving, Mab." Assa glances at Klavier and rolls her eyes, as though being exasperated with your crime-boss is a sentiment they can share. "Just cut your losses and walk away."

"Defense!" Mab turns his furious face to Apollo. " _Fix_ this, at once. These accusations are—"

Apollo's right hand touches his bracelet, and he gives his head a little shake. "True. These accusations are all true. They fit with the facts, and Ms. Sin believes that every word she's uttering now is honest. I told you I would get to the truth, Mr. Bass, and I did."

The judge makes a considering noise in the back of his throat. "Does that mean that the defense rests?"

Apollo glances at Mab, glad that Athena is working her own case this week and isn't going to have to share the mob boss' ire. "The defense rests."

"The prosecution also rests, your honor." Klavier's hands settle at his belt. "And requests that the witness be taken into police custody for immediate interrogation."

"Indeed, that would seem to be the wisest course of action. Bailiff!" The judge waits for one of the bailiffs to handcuff and lead Sin away before continuing. "Now I am in the incredibly awkward position of declaring that the defendant is not guilty of the murder, per se, but is guilty of several other crimes, including conspiracy to murder, illegal money-lending, and the running of illegal gambling sites. The court declares that the defendant will remain in police custody while the prosecution draws up a complete list of charges and evidence is gathered from Ms. Sin. We will resume these proceedings tomorrow."

The gavel comes down, swift and sure, and the gallery erupts into chaos as Bass is handcuffed and led into the defendant lobby.

Apollo sighs, following his client, knowing that the ensuing conversation isn't going to be pretty.

Bass seems to have regained some of his control, and he studies Apollo with cold, dead blue eyes as Apollo comes to stand before him. "I'm disappointed in you, boy. You told me that you could win, no matter what."

"You told me that you weren't guilty of the murder." Apollo touches his bracelet again, remembering the conversation that led to his being here—the conversation and the strange text message from Klavier, but Bass likely doesn't know about that. "I told you that as long as that was true I could ensure you weren't convicted of it. And I've done just that."

"Clever, cheeky little boy." Bass straightens to his full height, giving a disdainful sniff. "You're going to regret this."

"I never regret getting to the truth." Apollo isn't going to be intimidated by someone in handcuffs. "If you want me to continue on as your lawyer, I will. I'll ensure that the charges against you are fair for the crimes committed, and do my best to ensure you get a reasonable sentence."

"A _reasonable sentence_?" Bass snorts. "They _hang_ people for crimes like the ones you just told the judge I've committed."

"Well, then, maybe you shouldn't have committed them." Apollo's stomach still does a strange little flip-flop as he thinks about this man—a man he's spent forty-eight hours working for—being legally murdered. "I would try to get leniency within the bounds permitted by the law. But I won't lie or hide the truth, not for you or anyone else. And if that's what you want, you should hire a different lawyer."

The smile that Bass dons is an ugly, brutal expression. "We'll see, Mr. Justice. I'll be in touch over the next few hours."

The smile the bailiff offers Apollo is a little more genuine, almost apologetic, and the older man touches Bass' arm. "Come along, now. We need to be getting back to the detention center in case Prosecutor Gavin wants to talk with you again."

Bass doesn't say anything more as he's led away, and Apollo turns his attention to organizing his briefcase, making sure his notes on evidence are properly arranged. The last thing he wants is to lose paperwork and damage what looks to be a very exciting case in Klavier's future.

He's not terribly surprised when he straightens up to find himself staring into much nicer blue eyes, Klavier Gavin having decided to come slum it with the defense for a few minutes.

Apollo glares up at the taller man. "I quote, 'You very much want to take this case, Herr Forehead.'"

"Well, it was a very _exciting_ case, wasn't it?" Klavier doesn't look the least bit apologetic, his grin somehow managing to widen further as he studies Apollo. "You would have hated to miss it."

"Oh, yes, I very much would have hated missing the opportunity to get involved with a mob family, _again_." Apollo growls out his response. "You couldn't have given me a head's up about that?"

"I could have, but that might have been seen as colluding with the defense." Klavier straightens, his smile fading away, leaving an earnest, eager expression in its place. "I thought, when I began investigating this, that I had an opportunity to catch Bass. He is not a nice man, Herr Justice. He is moving in on other groups' established territories, increasing violence, and is by far the most ruthless of the crime lords currently operating. But in order to ensure the trial went the way I needed it to go, the defense had to be someone decent. Someone who would try to get to the truth, rather than simply try to do as Bass requested."

"Some sap like me." Apollo sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Do you think you've gotten what you need?"

Klavier shrugs. "I am much closer to it than I was before, and between what Sin will give me and the transcripts of this trial... I think I will be able to put him away, _ja_."

"Good." Apollo can feel his face heat. "I mean—well, it's good when you actually convict the right person."

"I thank you for the staggering vote of confidence, _Vielfrass_." Klavier is smiling again, though, despite what was likely an insult in German. "I do _try_ to accuse only those who are actually guilty of crimes, you know."

"Could have fooled me." Apollo crosses his arms in front of his chest. "But I suppose we didn't do too badly today."

"Not badly at all." Klavier's words are soft, and he flashes his honest smile once more.

"So... was that all you wanted to say?" Apollo resists the urge to scuff one foot against the carpet. No matter what Klavier may say and imply, Apollo is neither a child nor an idiot.

"Most of what I wanted to say." Klavier shrugs. "I hated to ruin your perfect record, but I am glad you understand the reasons why."

"You haven't ruined anything." Apollo straightens. "My client said he wasn't guilty of murder, and I proved just that. I still have a perfect record."

"That... well, whatever helps you sleep better at night." Klavier gestures over his shoulder, toward the door. "I also wanted to see if you wished to face the press together with me. We can use some bailiffs to keep the crowd back, give ourselves a little more space to breathe and give our statement."

Apollo winces. "This case is that big a deal?"

Klavier nods. "This case is that big a deal. So. Together, Herr Justice?"

Klavier holds out one hand, and after a moment's hesitation Apollo takes it, giving a single quick handshake before releasing Klavier's fingers. "Together."

XXX

Klavier answers most of the questions, which Apollo is grateful for. Though dealing with people is a core part of being a lawyer, dealing with the press is never fun, and especially given the sensitive nature of the case Apollo doesn't want to say something that will come back to bite them. So he says very little, merely stating that his client was found not guilty of perpetrating the murder and that further details will be forthcoming in later trials.

The noise of the gunshot is quiet, distant, and it comes to Apollo's ears a second or two after the bullet has hit home. It causes a strange sort of disconnect as Apollo's eyes, always too sharp and quick to catch detail, show him snapshots of blood spraying through the air, Klavier toppling backward, camera flashes going off, but without giving him enough information to understand _why_.

He moves before comprehension really dawns, darting forward—to protect Klavier, to face the threat, to change his position, Apollo isn't really able to say.

Pressure and pain explode through his shoulder, and Apollo screams, the scent of blood growing thick in the air. The sound of the second gunshot is lost amid the sea of terrified cries from the crowd as they realize what's happening.

Someone is shooting at them.

Someone shot Klavier, and Apollo drops to the ground next to him, hissing in agony as his entire right side tries to freeze up. Klavier's eyes are half-lidded, his chest rising and falling in jerky, uncoordinated motions. Blood has matted his hair into a fiery halo, and Apollo's fingers pat uselessly at Klavier's black shirt.

 _Headshot_ , he seems to hear in his mind—the voice of the announcer in some silly zombie-hunting game or other that he was playing with Trucy, and it doesn't fit here.

 _Nothing_ here fits or makes sense, because someone shot Klavier in the head and Apollo's pretty certain he's also bleeding badly and—

A third bullet blazes its way across Apollo's back as he leans forward to try to see exactly how bad the damage to Klavier's head is, and Apollo collapses, the darkness of unconsciousness rising up to push away the pain and disorientation.

XXX

Apollo wakes up in a beautiful park, his head pillowed on a young woman's lap.

He doesn't remember exactly how he fell asleep, but this scenario _definitely_ doesn't seem familiar, and he starts to sit up before stopping as pain flickers fire-bright in his chest.

The woman smiles down at him, one small hand pressing against his chest as her other brushes across his forehead. "Stay still, Apollo. It's a beautiful day, isn't it? Absolutely lovely."

Apollo looks past the woman's flame red hair and gentle smile to see a true blue sky, with just the right number of fluffy clouds in it to be called perfect or picturesque, depending on one's opinions on hyperbole and vocabulary. "It... seems really nice."

A tiny songbird swoops down to bask on the woman's shoulder, and she smiles again as she lifts a finger to stroke the bright yellow chest. "I've wanted to do this with you for a long time, Apollo. I'm so glad we finally got the chance. Now we can just rest, relax..."

Apollo's eyes begin drifting closed even as the woman speaks, and he fights to push them open again. "Where... are we? Who are you?"

Bending down, the woman presses lightly glossed lips to his forehead. "Silly boy. _You've_ wanted this for a long time, too. Surely you haven't forgotten..."

He remembers fragments. He remembers dreams like this when he was little—dreams of having a life like the ones he sees on television, reads about in books. Dreams of picnicking by a pond, in a field full of green grass but devoid of the crawling and biting insects that always reside there in real life, and a smiling woman who will call him _son_ and lay his head in her lap and be _proud_ of him.

This woman can't be much more than his own age, though, and he never even told _Clay_ about those dreams, so—

"Oh, don't make that face at me, little boy." Tapping her finger against Apollo's nose, the woman gives a cheerful little smile. "Did you want to go play with the animals? There are some very brave bunnies and ducks by the pond, and once you've had a chance to play we can have a picnic, and eat the sandwiches we made. You remember making the sandwiches with me this morning, right, Polly-wolly?"

Does he remember? His chest twinges again, though the pain seems farther away. The woman's hand immediately moves to cover the spot that ached, rubbing gently, and Apollo finds himself transfixed by the feel of her fingers—cool, firm, seeming to anchor him in place, somehow. And maybe he _does_ remember making sandwiches with her, but the him in the memory is a child, not a lawyer, and _he_ is most definitely an adult lawyer... right?

"Still thinking so hard." More birds have gathered around the woman, singing happily, and while one hand massages his chest the other moves to his forehead, smoothing over the furrows of confusion there. Bending down, her lips hover just a few scant millimeters above his. "Just _relax_ , little one. Relax and let me—"

A doorway of fire explodes into being about six inches from Apollo's feet.

He jumps up and away from the flame with a yelp, stumbling backwards, clutching at his chest as pain once more flares bright in at least two places. What is going _on_? Where _is_ he, and who is this woman, and _how is there a door made of flaming keys burning in front of him_?

A door that swings open, disgorging a vaguely familiar dark-haired woman whose eyes seem to spit sparks as she studies the red-head now standing beside Apollo. The dark-haired woman flings up her left hand, index finger pointed as though giving an objection, and a jet of flame leaps from her towards the red-head.

One of the birds that had been circling the red-head spins forward, cheeping plaintively in contrast to the crackle of the fire, and is immolated in a flash of blinding white light.

Before Apollo is even able to blink his vision back into focus, the red-head has his wrist in a death grip, her beatific smile slipping as she faces her—their?—aggressor.

The dark-haired woman pauses, her fire-throwing hand held to her chest. "Let him go."

"I got here first." Tossing her hair back, the red-head glares defiance before turning an almost sickly-sweet smile to Apollo, the change in expressions quick and disquieting. "Don't worry, honey. I'm going to take care of you."

Dark-hair snorts. "Oh, yes, you're going to take care of him. What she's trying to do, Mr. Justice, is ensure that you die."

Dying is _really_ not high on Apollo's list of things to do, and he tries to surreptitiously pull his wrist away from red-hair.

Her nails dig into his skin with unexpected force, drawing little pinpricks of blood. "Don't listen to her, Polly-wolly. Stay with me. We'll be happy here."

The words are some kind of spell, weaving their way through the air, trying to bind him into believing them. He thinks he would have, earlier—or at least would have been _tempted_ to believe, to at least stay and see if just perhaps some of the idle childhood fantasies he had might come true.

Now, with the fire-handed woman standing there watching Apollo with wary eyes, with the memory of how red-hair destroyed the little bird without a flinch, the spell feels like a net—a cage trying to snap closed around him.

Apollo has never liked feeling trapped, and he tries once more to wrench his hand away.

The red-haired woman's expression shifts once more, her skin becoming inhumanly pale, her eyes seeming to glow bright red as her hair begins to levitate around her head. Her fingers dig more firmly into his wrist, bright points of pain. "If you think you're getting away from me—"

"Let..." Apollo tries to pull away again, and the woman twists her hand, driving him to his knees by the torque on his wrist. "Me..." It feels like her whole _fingers_ are sinking into his skin, and fear wells up along with pain, stirs itself into a fierce wall of anger. " _Go!_ "

The word explodes out as a crushing wind, and for the briefest moment surprise shows on the red-haired woman's face as she is driven back two steps.

Two steps is apparently all the opening dark-hair needs, and she sends a searing bolt of fire between them, glowering at the red-haired woman the whole time. "Come with me, Apollo Justice, if you want to live!"

The door of fire flares into brilliant life again, a ring of flaming keys around an impenetrable darkness, but given the choice between that and staying in this carefully-crafted honey-trap, Apollo thinks he knows what the safer option is.

Ducking his head low and keeping his arms close to his sides to minimize his chances of getting burned, Apollo runs into the darkness, hoping it will take him somewhere he can find some answers.

XXX

Klavier walks through a backstage area, sweat beading on his forehead, trickling down the small of his back. He can hear a crowd chanting, growing restless and angry; hear the introductory chords that should signal his entrance to the stage; but he can't seem to find his way towards them.

No matter what door he tries, the roaring sounds don't seem to get any closer.

And even if he reaches the stage, he is missing something— _somethings_. He doesn't have his guitar. He doesn't remember what their set is going to be.

He is _hot_ , and his head aches, and—

" _Gavin_." Daryan's voice cracks through the air between them, irritation showing in his scowl and his quick, clipped steps as he approaches Klavier. "You trying to make us all look bad?"

"No, I—" Klavier shakes his head, regretting the action as he does so. Lifting a hand to press against the agony pounding there, he tries to find words to make Daryan understand. "I don't... I don't remember..."

Daryan snorts. "Of course you don't. Given how much you drank, it's amazing you're even still vertical." Stalking into Klavier's personal space, Daryan yanks up one of Klavier's shirt sleeves, exposing a series of needle tracks running down from the crook of his elbow. "Though I guess that helps explain it."

Klavier's own fingers follow Daryan's, horror and confusion somehow managing to drive the pain in his head a bit further away. What did he _do_? "Daryan, I don't—I _wouldn't—_ "

"Uh huh." Daryan tugs Klavier's shirt back over the needle tracks. "Come on, Gavin. Thankfully most of your fans don't care how well you play as long as they get to see that pretty body doing what it does."

Daryan doesn't give Klavier a chance to protest or ask any more questions, grabbing him firmly by the wrist and tugging him to the stage.

The rest of the band is already there, their disappointed glares feeling like little needle-pricks across Klavier's skin as he stumbles towards his position. A guitar—one of his custom ones—is waiting on a stand in the center of the stage, and Klavier shrugs the strap on over his head.

The crowd isn't pretty. How long has he kept them waiting, for their grumbling chanting of his name to feel so much like a threat? However long it was, he can make up for it. (He has so much to make up for, so many people to apologize to and try not to disappoint, though he can't remember exactly _why_ right now.)

"Come on, Gavin!" Daryan and the rest of the band are watching him, impatient, frustrated. " _Play_."

Klavier strums his fingers across the guitar strings, hoping he had thought to tune it earlier.

Blood immediately begins pattering to the stage floor, slides thick and viscous over the guitar strings as they ring out atonally.

"What's wrong, Gavin?" The smile Daryan wears is all wrong, full of vicious cruelty as he watches Klavier. "Just going to give up?"

Klavier holds up his bloody fingers, but Daryan doesn't seem to notice the red liquid. Is it not real? Is it just a hallucination—some kind of bad trip?

The crowd is chanting ever more angrily, and Klavier tries strumming his fingers along the strings again, earning more blood and a deeper, throbbing agony in his fingertips. If he keeps doing this, will he be able to play period?

The stage lights are set too high, too bright, and Klavier feels as though his skin is being peeled away in small little segments.

Daryan's arms wrap around him, bring his fingers back to hover over the strings. "Come on, Klavier. What is it that you think you're doing? Give them what they want. Give them—"

"If it's your blood they want, then they deserve nothing."

The voice is male, low, unfamiliar, but somehow it cuts through the chanting and jeering of the crowd to reach Klavier's ears. He stares down towards a gentleman in black pants, an impressive tan jacket, and a black hat. Tilting the brim of the hat up so that he can meet Klavier's eyes, the man stands firm at the very edge of the crowd, just off the stage. "Hello, Klavier Gavin. I'd like to help you, if you'd allow it."

Klavier's eyes rake over the man once more. How is he not sweltering in that outfit? How does he seem untouched by the crowd surging around him? A glittering hint of gold in one of the lapel holes of the man's jacket catches Klavier's eye—a defense attorney's badge?

Pain surges through Klavier's skull again, and he raises bloody fingers to press against his forehead.

Daryan hugs him tight, his hands fierce, possessive. "Don't let the band down, Klavier. Not again. Not like you always do."

The man is no longer standing at the edge of the crowd, somehow having teleported onto the stage. "What you're doing is despicable, young man. You know that, don't you?"

It takes Klavier a moment to realize that it's not him that's being addressed but Daryan.

Daryan's voice is a sneer as he stares back at the defense attorney. "You've got no claim on him. Whereas _me_... we're close, Klavier. Right?"

Daryan's hands slide up and down Klavier's body—possessive, _teasing_ , but in a way that sends cold shivers all along Klavier's spine.

"A man belongs only to himself. But if we were to choose someone worthy of our loyalty... who would you choose, Klavier?" The man's dark eyes skewer Klavier. "The man who betrayed you... or Miles Edgeworth?"

 _Edgeworth_.

The name is a cold bucket of water amidst the flaming stage lights, and Klavier stumbles forward, towards the stranger who offers him honesty, integrity, _perseverance_.

Guitar wires slice into his wrists, his elbows, his shoulders, his knees, seeming to catch him in place. Daryan's hand buries itself in Klavier's hair, holding on tight. "You're not going anywhere but to the morgue, _friend_."

The defense attorney still seems unflustered. "Prosecutor Gavin, if you could find one thing, one focus around which to concentrate your thoughts—to concentrate your _power_ —what would it be? Don't tell me. Just envision it." The man pauses, and the tiniest hint of a smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "And let it loose."

Klavier doesn't have to think long. He just opens his mouth and sings, a terrible mish-mash of German and English words, and watches the stage disappear into darkness as Daryan's howls of frustration ring in his ears.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two**_

" _Edgeworth_." As soon as they sprint into the waiting room lobby Phoenix's eyes pick out the Chief Prosecutor, and a confusing torrent of relief and anger surges up in his chest. "What the hell _happened_?"

Edgeworth flinches back a bit, his glasses dangling from his right hand, his left coming across his chest to hug his arm as he turns away from direct eye contact. "I'm still trying to figure that out, Wright. There was some kind of breach of security—"

" _Clearly_." Phoenix can feel his nostrils flare, the anger winning out over other, more dangerous emotions.

"Daddy!" Trucy appears at his side, tugging hard on his sleeve. "Come on. They won't tell me anything about Polly."

Phoenix allows himself to be pulled away from Edgeworth and towards the nurse behind the desk. "Don't go anywhere. We need to talk."

"Yes, we do." Edgeworth sounds tired as he settles into one of the surprisingly well-cushioned waiting chairs.

" _This_ is my Daddy." Trucy doesn't stop tugging until they're in front of the desk. Phoenix has at least a good six inches in height on the woman standing there, but somehow he's the one who feels intimidated as she runs her eyes up and down his body. "He's the one who has medical power of attorney for Polly, so you've got to tell us what's going on."

"Phoenix Wright, ma'am. Attorney." Phoenix adjusts the lapel of his jacket that has his attorney's badge on it. "I do indeed have power of attorney for Apollo in crisis situations."

The woman's slight, disapproving frown doesn't change. "You have paperwork to prove it?"

"I..." Phoenix pats his pockets, feeling foolish. When he'd received the call from Edgeworth saying Apollo had been _shot_ at the courthouse, finding his wallet and enough change for the bus had been a higher priority than finding the paperwork that he's _fairly_ certain he and Apollo filled out properly following the Phantom case last year.

Trucy twirls around, her cape flaring, and when her cape falls again she's clutching a handful of papers that definitely look legal, and at least _seem_ to have his and Apollo's signatures on them. "This is what you're looking for, right? Polly's an orphan, and Daddy's the one who's taking care of him in emergencies, and that makes me like his sister, so you _have to tell me how he's doing_."

(She _is_ his sister, and Phoenix's stomach somehow ties itself into even more knots as he looks down at his furious, frightened daughter and realizes how much he's left them in the dark about. He will have to call Thalassa, to let her know that the baby she abandoned might die before they get a chance to tell him the truth, and Phoenix has to stop thinking about that right now. First he needs to deal with what's right in front of him; the future can wait for a little bit.)

The nurse's expression finally softens a bit as she flips through the papers before handing them back to Phoenix. "I wasn't refusing to answer you because I don't want you to know. There are laws about these things, and especially where this is clearly part of an ongoing criminal investigation... he was shot twice in the chest. The first bullet entered on the right-hand side and went all the way through, damaging the right lung field. The second bullet entered at an oblique angle and traveled from left to right. They performed a CT scan and are, I believe, prepping him for surgery now. I'll have a doctor come talk with you as soon as they're available."

Silence stretches out, and it takes Phoenix longer than it should to realize that everyone's waiting for him to respond. He has to take two breaths before he's actually able to make words emerge. "That would be lovely. Thank you. Did they say... do you know..."

The woman gives her head a little shake. "His condition is critical, but I promise we're doing everything we can."

Trucy's hand closes around his, and Phoenix squeezes her fingers tight, trying to give what comfort he can.

The nurse turns away from them then, a pointed but not cruel motion—dismissing them, telling them that they need to go sit down while she continues about her work. Keeping a firm grip on Trucy's hand, Phoenix turns towards the back of the waiting room, where Edgeworth is still sitting.

They haven't gone more than four steps before Trucy is surging ahead, pulling her hand free. Since her trajectory seems to be towards Edgeworth, Phoenix lets her go.

Phoenix expects her to come to attention in front of Edgeworth, put her hands on her hips and demand answers. Instead she crawls up onto Edgeworth's lap, as though she were seven rather than seventeen. (Except they didn't have her when she was seven—that is a year that will forever belong to her biological father, no matter how much Phoenix can wish it otherwise.)

Edgeworth freezes, his whole body coming to a rigid attention at the clearly unexpected intimacy. Then his right hand rises, settles on Trucy's head, and he sighs as he puts his arms around her in a loose hold.

"What happened?" From Trucy, held in Edgeworth's arms, the words aren't an accusation. They are a request for information, for explanation, nothing more, and Phoenix feels very small and tired as he watches his daughter handle this situation with more aplomb than he's managed to.

"There was a shooter." Edgeworth closes his eyes, and Phoenix wonders what he's seeing—what he's imagining. His father's death? The deaths of others he's investigated over the years? "The case that Mr. Justice and Prosecutor Gavin were working on involves a very vicious and powerful mob boss and one of said mob boss' assassins. By careful maneuvering Prosecutor Gavin was able to convict said mob boss of several smaller crimes, and the assassin had promised a plea-bargain that should have seen... _will_ see the man imprisoned. I suspect the shooting has something to do with the conviction."

"But why shoot Apollo?" Phoenix's hands clench into fists. "Just for failing to get a not guilty verdict?"

"He didn't fail to get a not guilty verdict." Miles' right hand strokes over Trucy's hair. "Mr. Bass was found not guilty of personally committing the murder. But yes, I suspect Mr. Justice was targeted for failing to bend reality to the whims of a murderous villain."

"If they targeted Polly..." Trucy leaps abruptly off Miles' lap. "Where's Klavier? And this witness? Are they in protective custody? Does Klavier know—"

"The witness is safe. I've made sure of it—I have Detective Gumshoe guarding her until I can transfer her into the custody of a warden I trust." Miles sits up a bit straighter now that Trucy isn't pinning him down. "I'm afraid Prosecutor Gavin was also targeted. He sustained a single bullet wound to the head and is currently also in critical condition."

Trucy's face loses all color, and Phoenix steps forward, putting a hand on each of her shoulders.

Turning around, Trucy buries her head in Phoenix's waistcoat, her breath rasping harsh against unshed tears.

Miles leans toward her, though he doesn't reach out to touch her, his silver eyes dark. "I've got calls in to the best thoracic surgeons and neurologists in the state. I'll see that they're given the absolute epitome of care, Trucy. If there's any chance—"

"They'll be _fine_!" The words are shouted into Phoenix's jacket, Trucy's fingers clenching tight against the fabric. Pulling her head away, she gasps in a shaking breath and forces a smile. "Right, Daddy? They're alive right now, so if we just keep smiling and believing in them..."

Wrapping his arms around his daughter, Phoenix tries hard not to think about everyone else he has seen die—fierce people, determined people, people who had everything in the world to live for and loved ones rooting for them. People who had information to give, or reunions that they should have participated in, or children to protect... "Death isn't fair. It doesn't follow the laws of the courtroom or the laws of performance. But Apollo's alive right now, and we're going to do everything we can to _keep_ him and Klavier alive. Together."

"Together." Trucy holds tight to him, and he can't tell if she's still crying or not as she repeats the word like a mantra, a defense against the worst possibilities. "Together. We're going to be together."

XXX

Apollo stops running when the pain in his chest becomes overwhelming. He's not sure where he is, but he can no longer hear the red-haired woman's voice calling after him, and he takes that as a plus.

"Impressive." A woman's voice breaks the silence, causing Apollo to jump. "There aren't too many people who can outrun the Fey here."

Apollo presses back against a dark gray wall, his eyes immediately scanning over the room. Bits of computer equipment sit side-by-side with electronic components and small collections of flowers, and in the center of it all sits a woman in a kimono. She is kneeling in front of a table, the top of which is covered with a strange conglomeration of flowers and wires and computer chips.

Pressing one hand to his chest, Apollo tries to catch his breath. "Am I... dreaming?"

"I... suppose you could think of it like that, if it makes you feel better." The woman picks up a white lily and adds it to the vase in front of her, then searches through the computer chips to find one that's a shimmering ivory color. She hesitates for a moment before pressing it into the center of the dark purple chrysanthemum already there. "You're in the Labyrinth."

"I... know you." Apollo takes a hesitant step forward. "Or, well... you're Metis Cykes."

The woman nods, draping a string of black, green, and white wires over the edge of the vase. "You're Apollo Justice. You were Mr. Terran's friend. I don't believe we ever had a chance to meet before my untimely demise."

"No." Apollo settles down slowly by the table, at a ninety degree angle to Metis. "But I know your daughter. Athena."

"I know." Metis smiles. "I've been staying close to her. That's why I'm here, really."

"Here." Apollo reaches out to touch one of the flowers, stopping when Metis narrows her eyes at him. "In this... Labyrinth?"

Metis nods. "Think of the Labyrinth as a place between. You're not quite alive anymore, but you're also not quite dead. You're on the border. Go too deeply into the Labyrinth, and you'll pass out into proper death; find your way back..."

"Wait. Wait wait _wait_." Apollo presses a hand harder to his chest. "You're saying I'm _dying_? That's a hell of a lot different from a dream!"

"It isn't, really. Or I suspect it's not if one were to look at ECG patterns, but I've never had the opportunity to test it, unfortunately." Metis adds another flower to the arrangement, her eyes questing past Apollo.

When Apollo turns to look where she's staring, he sees nothing. Including no door, though he definitely ran through the wall that is staring blankly back at him. "Um... what are you looking for?"

"Mia." Metis sighs. "She's much better at explaining all of this. It's what her family does, you know—deals with ghosts and spirits and the areas between the living and the dead."

"Mia _Fey_!" Apollo shouts out the name, realizing why it was familiar. "She's my boss'—she and Mr. Wright—"

"Try not to be so loud." Metis raises a warning hand to her lips. "It appears Mia was delayed. Did you meet anyone else while you've been in the Labyrinth?"

"Uh... yeah." Sitting back down at the table, Apollo finds his eyes darting left, right, up, down, not quite trusting anything to stay real and solid anymore. "There was this red-head. She was... not terribly nice."

Metis huffs out a breath, her nostrils flaring. "Dahlia. We should have expected she'd target you. The little vixen can't accept that she lost twice to a man she thought she had wrapped around her little finger."

"Dahlia..." Apollo turns the name over on his tongue, trying to figure out why it sounds faintly familiar. Something about Mr. Wright's early cases, he thinks, but—oh. Oh no. " _Dahlia Hawthorne?_ That was _Dahlia Hawthorne_?"

Metis' eyebrows arch upward. "It was. I'm surprised to hear he spoke of her with you."

"He didn't. I just, uh..." Apollo shrugs, feeling a little foolish. "When I was younger I was following Mr. Wright's career pretty avidly. And when there's claims about evil ghosts potentially flitting about the courtroom... well, it made the news. But I don't get..."

"It's a long and complicated story, and not really mine to tell." Metis' shoulders move in a brief shrug as she gathers an unfamiliar flower up and carefully places it into the vase. "Suffice to say she tangled with both Mia Fey and Phoenix Wright and was beaten soundly in all instances. It's made her rather vengeful and vindictive, and at the moment _you_ are the person who is bearing the brunt of that vindictiveness."

"Great." Apollo feels like even his hair is slumping in frustration as he watches Metis weave a thin, beautiful thread of shimmering silvery wire around the flower she just placed. "Is there any particular reason she's after me?"

"Because she can." Metis' voice is calm, her eyes fixed on her work. "For some people there is joy in simply causing pain. I don't know if Dahlia was one of those originally, but the idea of hurting Phoenix—of killing his protege, or even better killing and trapping his protege, turning you into a pawn of hers—has infinite appeal."

Apollo raises a hand to press against his chest where throbbing pain still lingers. "She can kill me?"

The nod that Metis gives is perfunctory, her eyes narrowing as she continues her work. "The Labyrinth is a place between life and death, as I said. You will either find your way back to life, or you will wander deeper until the connection between soul and body is severed. Tell me, is there something that currently pains you?"

"Uh..." Apollo looks down at his chest. "My chest hurts. Sometimes more, sometimes less, and it's weird because it doesn't seem to be related to what I'm doing?"

"Not so weird. Pain is one of the things that anchors spirit and body. Not the only thing—perhaps not even the most important one—but one of the things." Metis' eyes rake around the room again, and her shoulders seem to straighten as she jams another flower into the vase. "As the pain increases, your separation from your body decreases. As the pain decreases..."

"I'm not going to die!" Apollo slams his palms down on the table as he shouts out the word, a spike of pain running through his chest as he does. "Whatever I need to do, whatever ghosts I need to defeat to get out of here, I'm going to do it!"

Metis smiles at him, though her eyes once more scan over their surroundings. "That's very much what Mia and myself and several others would like. We've been watching you—well, not you in particular, but those we left behind. Which, for some of us, is you. Oh, dear, I'm getting distracted. The point is that you will have enemies here, Mr. Justice, because those who love you have made some rather terrible enemies, but you will also have friends. And if there's any possible way that we can help you find your back to the living, to those who need you—"

Metis stops speaking abruptly, her eyes widening as she turns to face the wall behind Apollo.

Apollo hears the footsteps a second or two later. There is an odd cadence to them, an extra sound that makes Apollo suspect the walker has a cane. They seem to echo eerily, as though the walker is moving through some ancient brick tunnel rather than through the sleek metallic corridors of GYAXA.

A door that looks like it belongs in an old science fiction show like the ones Apollo watched with Clay when they were little—a door that hadn't been there the last time Apollo looked—slides open in the wall. For a moment an old man stands back-lit in the doorway, cane in hand, body turned into silhouette by the blinding white of some unidentifiable light source.

Then the man steps forward, and the cruelest smile Apollo has ever seen on a person's face twists across his mouth. "Apollo Justice. Phoenix Wright's little protege, eh? Imagine finding you in a place like this."

"Prosecutor Manfred von Karma." Apollo breathes out the name, instinctively taking a step back, his knees colliding with the low table that Metis has been working at. He remembers seeing this man on television—remembers watching Mr. Wright take him down, a rookie defense attorney doing the impossible, exposing decades worth of corruption in one determined sweep.

"Manfred." Metis has a loop of gold wire and what looks like an electronic _eyeball_ in hand, and she swiftly ties them both to one of the flowers in the vase. "There's no need for you to get involved in this."

"No need?" Von Karma holds up an index finger, making a _tsk_ ing sound as he does. "My dear woman, you know what Phoenix Wright and that ungrateful little bastard of a ward took from me?"

"They didn't take _anything_ from you." Apollo's hands clench into fists as he stares up at the man who _killed_ a defense attorney for having the gall to stand up to him. "You ruined everything for _yourself_ by being too stubborn and prideful to admit that the truth's more important than any stupid ideas about perfection."

Metis smiles. "Well spoken, Apollo."

Von Karma's hands both settle on his staff. "Spoken like I'd expect of Wright's brat. You _owe_ me, boy. Well, your _mentor_ owes me, but watching him suffer from your death—waiting to tell him that _I_ was responsible for killing you, to tell him that _he caused your death—_ will be at least a small bit of repayment on that debt."

"Neither Phoenix Wright nor Miles Edgeworth owes you anything." Metis stands, her hands folded together, the sleeves of her kimono hanging down to cover them as she faces Von Karma without fear. "And you will not hurt their family to get at them."

"Their family _?_ " Apollo's incredulous exclamation—and he doesn't know if he's objecting more to the title of _family_ or to the singular unit implied by the phrase—is drowned out by Von Karma smashing the butt of his cane down on the ground with a sound like thunder.

"Because _your_ child happened to fall in with them?" Von Karma sneers down at Metis, his hands clenching on the tip of his cane. "You owe them nothing, Cykes. Walk away. Let me have a bit of my revenge."

"Or what?" Metis smiles thinly. "You'll hurt me, Manfred? Pain is something that can be overcome. Destroying me is, I think, outside your abilities. And hurting him—hurting _my daughter_ for your petty little revenge fantasy—is not something I am going to tolerate. _Run_ , Apollo!"

Apollo turns to face Metis, prepared to argue with her... and watches the carefully crafted flower arrangement begin shifting on its own, climbing out of its vase, the single eyeball that Metis tied in fixing unerringly on Von Karma.

Whatever's going on here, Apollo is very much out of his depth, and it's probably best for the moment that he listens to the people who know what's going on. Diving across the table, he charges at the seemingly solid wall, closing his eyes and trusting it to let him _out_ of the room via whatever means had let him _into_ it.

He hears the sound of thunderclaps behind him, strange rustling and beeping noises that probably indicate Metis' creation acting.

He opens his mouth and screams out a war cry of his own, arms rising to protect his face, but doesn't encounter any wall.

When he lowers his arms and opens his eyes, the room with Metis and Von Karma is gone, replaced by towering walls of brick and scuffed rock covered in graffiti. Apollo keeps running through the unfamiliar landscape, raising a hand to press against his chest where pain is once more burning.

Does is burn more if he runs one way then if he runs another? Is he supposed to use it as some sort of _marker_ for how he moves? What does it _mean_ to solve the Labyrinth?

He doesn't know, but he's going to find out, because the alternative is that it quite literally kills him, and despite everything that's happened over the last few years he is _definitely_ not ready for that.

XXX

Klavier settles down on a black-sand shore, burying his head in his hands as he pants for breath.

It _hurts_.

Moving hurts, _thinking_ hurts, and the pain just seems to be increasing with every step he takes.

Where is Gregory Edgeworth? When Klavier had sung himself free of the guitar strings that Daryan had wrapped him in, Gregory had told him to _run_ , and Klavier had obeyed. Did he run the wrong way? Did he outrun the man who has the answers?

Did he leave Gregory to face Daryan alone, and was it too much for the older man to handle?

Daryan is _dead_. Klavier remembers that now. Daryan died in prison, in a riot where no one was _quite_ able to determine who snapped the ex-cop's neck. Klavier suspects no one really _wanted_ to, and given that there are far bigger problems for them to solve Klavier himself hadn't really devoted much time to it and...

Is _he_ dead? Is this his punishment? The sand seems to shift under his feet, the waves washing against the shore a half-dozen feet away sounding like the murmurs of the gallery before a mood change. What is it going to do? Start shouting accusations? Demand answers to questions Klavier hasn't even thought of? Start shouting for blood, and who cares if it's innocent or guilty or—

A hand closes around his upper arm, swinging him around in a drunken half-circle. Klavier instinctively closes his right hand into a fist and swings at the man who's grabbed him, but the man ducks, guiding them both down to the ground when Klavier overbalances and falls.

"Easy there." The man speaks gently, patting Klavier on the shoulder as he does. His hair is a dark brown-red color, part of it tied up at the back in a silly little tail. A soft, comfortable-looking light grey shirt is covered with a dark grey business jacket, and a blue scarf with a white design on it is tied around his neck.

Wind blows off the water, damp and chill, and Klavier shivers, trying to decide what to do. Fight? Run? Ask for directions? Pray he wakes up?

"Aw, kid, you look like you're at death's door." The man cracks a smile as he says the words, giving a little chuckle as though he's said something entertaining. Taking the scarf from around his neck, he slides it gently around Klavier's, the warmth blocking at least some of the ocean breeze's cold.

"I... somehow suspect I am missing the joke." Klavier pulls away from the man, attempting to arrange himself in a semi-reasonable sitting position, and this time the man allows it, releasing him.

"Yeah, well, it's not a very funny joke." The smile fades away from the man's face and he pushes a hand back through his bangs, though none of them had swung forward to block his eyes. "I suppose introductions are in order, first. Byrne Faraday, at your service."

"Klavier Gavin." Klavier speaks slowly, watching the man in front of him with renewed interest. He _does_ look a bit like Kay, Klavier supposes, though there is one very big problem with this being Kay's father. "And forgive me for saying this, but you've been dead for about two decades now."

"Yeah, I know." Byrne sighs. "Father of the year, that's me. Not that Kay hasn't done well for herself. I'm pretty damn proud of who she's become and the friends that she's made." Byrne's hand reaches out, slapping Klavier on the shoulder. "Friends like you, Prosecutor Gavin. Which is why even though you're at death's door, I'd really like to help you find your way back to the land of the living, despite all the unpleasant land mines that are undoubtedly littered along the way."

Klavier fingers the fabric of the scarf wrapped around his neck. "I... don't think I quite understand."

"You're in the Labyrinth. The maze between life and death." Byrne pushes himself to his feet, holding out a hand for Klavier to take.

Clasping Byrne's fingers, Klavier clambers back into a standing position, having to brace himself and stare down at the sand as the world seems to swim disconcertingly around him.

"You've actually done remarkably well on your own." A bright, somewhat silly grin creeps across Byrne's face as he reaches out to place a hand on Klavier's elbow, anchoring him in place. "When Gregory told you to go, you booked it towards the land of the living."

"You... know Gregory Edgeworth?" It's probably one of the sillier questions Klavier has asked in his life, but between the spiking shards of pain in his head and the debilitating disorientation and dizziness that is currently dogging his steps it seems reasonable enough.

"Yeah. We'd actually met a couple times while we were both alive—he was a damn good defense attorney, clean, clever, really just wanted to see justice done." Byrne shrugs. "I was a disillusioned prosecutor turned thief who respected honor and integrity when he saw it, especially given what he usually saw at the office. And, well, when you're hanging around in limbo waiting for the ones that you love to pass over... you start to get chatty with the other people hanging around, you know? The guy's got a dry sense of humor, but it grows on you, and don't _ever_ bet against him when it comes to the length of a trial. I swear he's got some sort of sixth sense about when people will pull out a surprise twist."

"I... would never dream of doing that." He's dreaming. That has to be the answer. He's dreaming and this is all some kind of terrible nightmare, and if he could just figure out how to _wake up_ then perhaps—

"This isn't a dream, kid." Byrne brushes some of Klavier's hair away from his eyes, his expression suddenly grave. "But if it helps you to think of it like that, then do. Just make it out. Whatever you do, make it out and _live_. Don't get stuck here. Don't let one of these self-righteous bastards trap you or tear you apart. I don't want my daughter to have to bury someone else she loves, and from what I've seen _you_ deserve a better, longer life too."

"I..." Klavier shakes his head, runs his tongue along his lips as he looks away from Byrne and out over the ocean. He can taste the salt of the water on his skin, hear the crash of the waves, feel the sand sliding between the layers of his shoes and the weave of his socks to scratch against his feet, but there is still something... off about the space that they occupy.

"I forgot the birds." Byrne smacks a palm against his forehead. "Sorry about that. Probably makes it a bit disconcerting, huh? This is a place Kay and I used to come on vacation—Badd would come occasionally, too, but that guy proposed to his work long before we met and I hate asking someone to have an affair. Here, how about this?"

The call of seagulls, low and lonely, rolls in with the next set of waves. Far off in the distance, a dolphin arches its way out of the water, and the silhouette of what might be an albatross appears against the low-hung sun. Klavier blinks at the changes. "That... was very strange."

"It is, isn't it?" Byrne is smiling again, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. "The whole Labyrinth is strange, though. It's formed of fragments of memories—from those who have died and those who have just passed through, like you're going to do. This little fragment's mine."

"So the stage... the concert..." Klavier swallows. "Was that Daryan's?"

"His or yours, hard to say. He definitely took advantage of the location to mess with you. Sorry I didn't get there fast enough to help, but at least Greg did." Byrne sighs. "This whole place is like that, though—it responds to thought, to emotion, to memory. Good thing is that gives us some power over how it looks and what happens. Bad thing is that gives the bad guys some power over how it looks and what happens."

"The bad guys. Like Daryan." Klavier crosses his arms in front of his chest, shivering as the wind tugs hard at his body again. Is there a storm coming in?

"Kid, as nasty and self-serving as Daryan was—is—there're people a whole lot worse out there." Byrne actually looks apologetic as he says the words.

As though he's telling Klavier something Klavier doesn't already know, and Klavier gives his own bitter smile as he shakes his head. "I know. But my brother isn't dead quite yet, so I suspect I don't have to worry about him."

A little wince and then a small smile is Byrne's response. "Right. Yeah. You know the type of people I'm talking about, then. And there are a few who will—"

There's very little warning before the fire rains down on them. Just a slight widening of Byrne's eyes as he looks past Klavier, and Byrne's arms yanking Klavier forward so that Byrne's body is between Klavier and the beach.

A second fireball slams into Byrne's back, the heat enough to drive away any chill the ocean had imparted, and Byrne staggers forward, only Klavier's hold keeping him upright as the scent of charred meat overwhelms the smell of the sea.

"Stupid, Faraday." The man who walks towards them across the beach shakes his head, his red motorcycle leathers standing out stark against the dark sand. "I will destroy you to get to him, y'know."

Faraday _laughs_ , a deep, resonating sound that starts out barely audible and becomes a raucous cawing as he straightens. Despite the smell of charred flesh, he is _smiling_ as he takes a deliberate step back from Klavier and holds out his arms. "To _get_ to him? We both know you'd destroy me if you could, DeBeste."

Faraday's face begins to change—his whole _body_ begins to change, fingers elongating, shoulders seeming to unhinge and then reposition themselves into a different configuration. His chest swells, and the clothes he had been wearing, the skin on his face, the hair on his head all give way to sleek black feathers. His voice deepens, develops an eerie echo as the enormous three-legged bird that had mere seconds ago been Byrne Faraday turns to face their attacker. "But nothing can defeat the Yatagarasu, and right now the Yatagarasu is going to guide you to—"

Blaise DeBeste doesn't let Byrne finish speaking, summoning up another stream of fire and lobbing it at the giant crow. Catching the fire in one taloned foot, Byrne crushes it into ashes—an action that Klavier's certain isn't physically possible, but neither is pyromancy or transforming into mythical creatures, so clearly what _should_ occur doesn't matter in the Labyrinth.

"Go." Byrne turns so that one bright crow eye fixes on Klavier. "Run."

Another fireball is launched, intercepted, and Blaise is getting far too close for comfort.

"Chase the pain until you find something better—and there _will_ be better chords to follow. Listen for them, look for them, _feel_ them." Byrne turns his head back towards Blaise, hopping forward to intercept an attack that had been launched directly at Klavier. "Kay and Sebastian have already had enough reasons to cry, kid. Let's not give them any more. So _run_."

Klavier doesn't argue with him. Though he never had the pleasure of meeting Byrne Faraday in life, Kay is one of his dearest friends, and she respects her father deeply. Given that Byrne seems to understand how the Labyrinth works, Klavier figures transferring the faith he has in Kay to her father—at least for this little bit of time—is the smartest thing he can possibly do.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter Three**_

They're so still.

Trucy stands in the center of the room, her lips pressed together into a thin line, her eyes darting back and forth between the two beds. Both are surrounded by life support equipment, the people lying in the bed dwarfed by the machinery that is attempting to preserve them. It's a magic trick, of a sort—making Apollo quiet, making Klavier hard to notice.

It's a magic trick she could have gone her whole life without seeing, very happily, and a tiny little whimper slides out of her mouth despite her best efforts.

"If this is too much, Trucy—" Her father's hand falls on her shoulder, and Trucy takes a step forward, away from the contact.

She is strong enough to handle this. She didn't pester Uncle Edgeworth for over an hour just to back down now that she's made it past security and into the room with the people she loves. "I'm okay. I just... had something caught in my throat."

She moves to Apollo's side first, casting a slightly guilty look at Klavier as she does. She'll go see him when she's let Polly know that he's not alone. A blood oxygen monitor and some kind of IV are protruding from his right hand, so she skitters around the bed to his left hand, lifting it gingerly and cradling it between both of hers.

He's breathing on his own. There's an oxygen mask situated over his face, bandages swaddling his whole chest when she peeks beneath the sheets, but he's breathing on his own. That has to be a good thing, right? The doctor had said it was a good thing if he could keep his blood oxygen levels up on his own, and right now they seem to be hovering somewhere around 90% if she's reading all the monitors right.

"Hey, Polly." Trucy raises his hand to her cheek, hoping the warmth of her skin will drive away some of the unnatural cold that seems to have settled in his. (His hands are always warm. His hands are always _moving_ , doing something, writing or fiddling, and for them to be so cold and still—but he made it through surgery. He's breathing on his own. She must keep smiling until he's able to smile at her in return.) "If you wanted a few days off, you could've just asked, you know."

He doesn't respond. She knew that he wouldn't—that he hasn't shown any signs of consciousness since the ambulance picked him up at the crime scene—but somehow she'd been hoping...

Well, Polly's almost as good at pulling off miracles as Daddy is. She's not going to _stop_ hoping until there's no chance anymore.

She can hear Daddy shuffling his feet behind her, doesn't need to turn to see him with his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his face turned away from the tableau. "Daddy, would you mind... could I have a few minutes with them?"

He goes still—very still, almost as still as the two people teetering at the edge of death—and then exhales loudly. "That's what you want?"

Trucy nods. "I just... if you don't mind..."

"Whatever you need, Trucy." One of his hands settles on her shoulder, hesitant, uncertain. (He never knows what to do for her when she's hurting, though he tries hard to find _something_. Just as she rarely knows what to do for him those few times he admits that he's hurting, and if Apollo actually _dies—_ but he won't. Polly is strong, and if he's made it this far he won't die. The doctor Uncle Edgeworth brought in _said_ that if Polly made it through surgery, he had a much better chance.) Her father clears his throat. "If... if you need someone, I'll be out in the hall, talking with Detective Gumshoe, all right?"

Trucy nods, a tiny, honest smile playing across her mouth. She likes the big detective—he's fierce and honest and as determined as any guard dog when it comes to keeping bad people away from those in his care. Uncle Edgeworth couldn't have found a better person to stand guard. And when he needs to sleep, Ema's supposed to take his place, and Trucy doubts _anyone_ would be stupid enough to try to get past an angry Ema. "If I need someone, I'll come tell you."

"Okay, then." Patting her shoulder, Daddy leans down and presses a kiss against the part of her hair. "When you're ready I'll probably come sit with them for a little while. Deal?"

Trucy nods. "Deal."

She doesn't hear the door click shut behind her father—there is no door, just a curtain separating this room from the nurses in charge of ICU. If not for the need to have security protecting them from further retaliation, they probably wouldn't be in a room like this but rather one of the glass-lined rooms that surround the nurses' kiosk.

They _do_ need to be protected, though, and it gives Trucy at least a little bit of privacy as she curls her body as close as she dares against Apollo's. "I'm right here, Polly. We're all here, rooting for you. So you're going to be just _fine_ , right? Absolutely fine."

Still no response from Apollo—or perhaps there is. He continues to breathe, after all, a white fog against the inside of the oxygen mask; the little squiggly line that the nurse had said represented his heart continues to squiggle its way across the monitor; the blood oxygen level continues to hover around ninety.

"If all you can do right now is keep yourself alive, then that's fine. You keep doing that. Because you're..." Trucy has to stop, to fight back a wave of tears and force another smile. Always keep smiling. That's what performers and lawyers do. "You're like a big brother to me, Polly. I know I tease you a lot, but it's mainly because you respond so well. But you... you actually like Daddy. Even when it was hard to see the real Daddy, you believed he was still in there, and for the last year... it's been really _good_ , Polly. I mean, not _always_ , obviously, I know you've been through a lot, but..."

She has to stop, her breath hiccuping out, and squeeze her eyes shut. A few tears still slip their way out, but she's able to regain her control, and when she opens her eyes they burn but don't betray her. "You're like my big brother, and you've been the _best_ big brother. So please. Wake up for me."

No response, of course, but Trucy doesn't care. She just continues to hold his hand tight, willing it back to warmth and life. After a few minutes, she feathers a kiss over Apollo's cheek before skittering off the bed and heading for the other side of the room.

Klavier also isn't meant to be so still. Though he isn't quite as objectively fierce and vibrant as Apollo, he is usually moving, a steady graceful motion. Now he is still save for the steady rise and fall of his chest in time with the _shh-crunk_ of the respirator.

Taking his hand in hers, Trucy avoids looking at his face. Not that there's _too_ much to see—the majority of his features have been obscured by bandages. His eyes have been taped shut—to prevent ulceration of the cornea, the nurse had said when Trucy asked. His hair has been shaved away, and the skin that does show around the bandages seems bruised and puffy, darker than normal against the stark white.

"Hi, Klavier." Trucy gives his hand a little squeeze. (How many people would pay to be here? And how many would turn away in horror when they saw that he's not pretty like this?) Klavier likes physical contact, and she's going to make sure he has some. (Anything that might help she will do, for either of them. She can't imagine losing one—losing _both_... she won't _let_ herself imagine it.) "We miss you here. We need someone to give Polly a quick kick in the pants right now, give him some motivation to get better."

The joke falls flat—far too flat, the sounds of the life support machines loud in the silence that follows. Even if Klavier survives, will he be able to tease Polly like he usually does? Or will—

"The neurologist..." The word tastes strange in Trucy's mouth, like the hospital air magnified. "The one Uncle Edgeworth brought in, he said that it could have been worse. That your skull deflected the bullet and most of the neural damage was actually due to the compressed skull fracture that they repaired." Trucy had listened so intently while the doctors spoke, hanging on every word, and she's still not sure she's repeating them right. "That if— _when—_ you wake up, you might... things might actually be okay. That with proper training, especially, people can make remarkable recoveries. You'll still be the prettiest, nicest, most honest prosecutor at the office—well, next to Uncle Edgeworth."

It's a poor attempt at reassurance, and Trucy has to close her eyes, the burning changing into real tears again as she squeezes Klavier's fingers tight.

The barest twitch of Klavier's fingers in response causes Trucy to jump a foot in the air, squeaking out a startled _meep_ as she does.

"Klavier?" Trucy squeezes his fingers again, but the motion doesn't recur. Scanning her eyes frantically over the ECG that she doesn't actually know how to read, Trucy tries to find some difference—something besides the funny waves that the neurologist had shrugged at and said probably indicate dreaming. Nothing catches her eye, and after a full minute of no response, she sighs and gives his hand a squeeze again. "It's okay. You're going to be okay. You're going to be _fine_ , right, just like Polly."

"...Trucy?"

For one wild, hope-filled moment Trucy thinks one of her boys has spoken—that either Apollo or Klavier has listened to her and fought their way back to consciousness. Then she realizes that it's a woman who spoke, that she recognizes the voice, and turns to the door with a smile plastered on her face. "Hi, 'Thena. Oh! Kay, too."

Kay doesn't return Trucy's greeting. Her eyes are fixed on Klavier, emotion burning red in both cheeks as she studies the prosecutor. She starts forward, stops, and then strides the rest of the way to Trucy's side with quick, determined steps.

Pressing Klavier's hand into Kay's, Trucy takes a step back, trying to swipe surreptitiously at her eyes. There will probably be lots of people coming to see both Polly and Klavier over the next few hours, and Trucy's fine sharing. Maybe seeing how much they're cared for...

Athena's hand lands on Trucy's shoulder, too. "Do you mind us coming in?"

Trucy shakes her head. "No. I said what I needed to, and maybe... it can't _hurt_ , right, so maybe it will help?"

"Hearing how much they're cared for should _definitely_ help." Athena's left hand ghosts over her ear, a suppressed wince crossing her face.

Trucy swallows. She doesn't want to hurt Athena, but she can't help the discord and pain that will be in her voice.

"Don't worry." Athena's fingers tighten around Trucy's shoulder, and she opens her arms in clear invitation for a hug. "I'm... I'm really upset about this, too."

Turning to face Athena, Trucy puts her arms around Athena's chest, rests her head against Athena's shoulder. "Uh huh." Maybe if she keeps her answers short, it won't be quite so bad.

Athena's head shifts so that it's leaning against Trucy's, her arms hugging Trucy tight. "It'll be all right. No matter what happens, it—"

"Excuse me." A harried-looking nurse sticks his head into the room, one of Gumshoe's hands visible on his shoulder. "Only two visitors allowed in here at a time. If something happens and we need to react—plus this is supposed to be a high-security—"

"It _is_ high security, pal." Gumshoe's voice is a rumbling growl. "But if it'll be better for those two—"

"Like I said, safer if something happens." The man shrugs, but Gumshoe's hand stays firmly affixed to him. "So only two at a time."

Trucy nods, stepping away from Athena. "You two stay. I've had a little bit."

Athena's hand strokes over Trucy's hair. "Are you sure...?"

Kay tears her eyes away from Klavier, and they are bright, sparkling with a combination of tears and emotion. "If you need us to steal you some more time—"

"I'm gonna go see Daddy." Trucy gives Athena one more hug. "But don't... don't leave them alone, okay? I know we're not allowed cell phones in here right now, but... I don't want them to be alone."

"Then we'll make sure they aren't alone." Athena clasps Trucy's hands tight. "Promise."

"Ladies..." The nurse once more tries to escape Gumshoe's hold and is once more held back.

Trucy heads towards the door. She stops just in front of the curtain, doffing her hat. "I'll be back, Polly, Klavier. So don't you guys get any ideas about going anywhere."

They don't say anything, of course, but Trucy tries to tell herself that's all right as she ducks around the nurse and under Gumshoe's raised arm.

She'll spend some time with Daddy for a little bit, and maybe by the time it's okay for her to go back and see them something will have changed.

XXX

Apollo tries to follow the pain in his chest, but it's difficult to manage, seeming to wax and wane with very little rhyme or reason.

The landscape that he wanders through changes every hundred steps or so, forest giving way to concrete office space giving way to racetrack giving way to fairground. He skirts as far around some areas as he can—the fair is dark, filled with the _noise_ of enjoyment and the flashing lights of a thousand rides, but there are no _people_. It's too much like something out of a horror story, and he stays at the fence, runs as fast as the burning, tight pain in his chest will let him, and comes out the other side into something equally unwelcome.

Who thought that putting an Olympic size swimming pool in the Labyrinth was a good idea? Apollo would love to give them a talking-to, but first he skirts far around the water, climbing up into the bleachers and walking across the aisle halfway up. If he goes higher, he's afraid something will jump out of the wall or something equally stupid and attack him; if he walks by the pool, he's certain some kraken-monster will shoot out a tentacle and pull him in.

He makes it past the swimming pool and out into the next area, which looks to be some kind of monstrous, impossibly-large nursery.

"Who would make a mobile that is big enough to crush a baby to death?" Apollo begins inching his way around the giant crib that he's not sure he could crawl up into if he wanted to.

There are two doors leading out of the nursery—neither of which is on the wall that he came in through. He doesn't quite dare to close his eyes, still half-convinced that some kind of monster is going to jump out at him at any moment—or that one of the people who wants to kill him will catch up to him soon—and tries to concentrate on his breathing. If he takes a step one way, does it get easier? What about the other way?

Apollo huffs out a frustrated sigh. "This is impossible. I'm never going to manage this. I'm going to be stuck here in limbo with a bunch of insane revenge-mad ghosts for _eternity_."

Something creaks behind him, and Apollo feels his shoulders hunch, his scalp prickling with anxiety. What door does he choose? Forward or left? Does it actually _matter_?

The sound of music trickles out from behind the left-hand door. It's a guitar, Apollo thinks, but whoever's playing it is talented, the notes resonating out in chords that seem to linger for longer than they should.

It's _familiar_ music, somehow, though he doesn't know how. (It's not Klavier's music, and he tries hard not to think about what Metis said about _their families_ , about others potentially trapped in the Labyrinth with him. If he can get out, maybe he can find a way to help whoever it is, too.) The music draws his running feet unerringly towards the door, and Apollo tumbles through, only catching a glimpse of something _moving_ behind him before the door is shut.

Shut and _gone_ , no analogue to it on this side. He's in... a bar? Something like that, though he isn't entirely certain. The music comes from a man sitting in the corner—a man who looks up and smiles when he sees Apollo, though his hands don't stop moving over the strings. "Well. Looks like it actually worked."

"Like..." Apollo presses a hand to his chest as pain spikes there, his breath shortening painfully. "Like... what worked?"

"I didn't know if I'd be able to reach you. You were so little, and it's been so long..." The man's hands strum one final chord, a haunting minor that lingers in the air unnaturally even as he sets the guitar aside. "But if you needed help, I had to at least try."

"Because you're related to Mr. Wright in some way?" Apollo pulls a chair away from one of the wooden tables, settling down in it facing the strange man. The minor-chord note continues to shimmer in the air, just on the edge of hearing. Setting his fists down on his knees, Apollo leans toward the stranger.

"You could say that." The man smiles. "Take a rest. I'm not the strongest one here, but I should at least be able to protect you for a minute or two."

Apollo sighs, wincing as the motion pulls painfully at his chest. His right hand rises to touch the area, and the stranger's eyes follow the motion, his expression filled with grief and something almost like fury. Apollo hastily returns his hands to his lap. "Thanks. For helping me." Assuming the man _is_ helping him, but Apollo definitely hurts more now than he had before, which _probably_ means he's moving in the right direction. "I'm Apollo Justice."

"I know." The man's lips twitch up into a little smile. "I've been watching you."

"Right." Apollo narrows his eyes as he studies the man. "Ghost stalkers. I seem to have a lot of them."

A startled, bright, pleased laugh has the stranger almost doubled up with mirth. "Oh, man. The Ghost Stalkers Club. I like it."

"Good. That's great." Apollo leans back in his chair. "Any tips on how I can keep from joining it?"

"Ah. Yeah. There's the hard part." The man's expression becomes abruptly serious, and he leans towards Apollo. "First, stay away from the ones who want to hurt you. Death seems to cling to you and those around you."

"Pleasant." Apollo's hands ball up into fists. "We haven't done anything. It's just... a lot of good people seem to have died around us, and a lot of bad people... we stop them."

"I didn't say you did anything to deserve it. Just that it's not surprising you ended up here, or that there are those who would like to see you stay here or pass out the wrong end." The man's hand reaches out, slowly, tentatively, and rests atop one of Apollo's fists. "Stay out of their grasp. Physical damage is a hell of a lot harder to manage when your spirit's getting torn up, too."

"I wasn't planning on just handing myself over. I've been doing pretty good so far at staying ahead of them." Apollo pauses, his chest constricting painfully again. "But how do I get _home_? How do I beat this Labyrinth?"

"You find your way back to your body. There are lots of ways you can do that." The man's eyes move to Apollo's chest, where the pain and uncomfortable constriction are. "You can follow the pain. Sometimes that's not the best thing, though. Pain _hurts_. Which, I mean, _duh_ , but pain is supposed to get you to stop doing something. So if you try to just chase down the pain, sometimes you just reach a point where you can't get yourself to go further."

"Okay." Apollo swallows, wondering if drinking Labyrinth water would be a bad idea. It's in faerie realms that drinking and eating is bad, right? Not half-land-of-the-dead places? "So what do I try to find instead?"

"Other things. Other connections to your life out there." The man shrugs. "Close your eyes and listen for voices. Pay attention to your hands, your face, and see if you can find some other physical sensation to follow."

"What, like... like people talking to me or touching me?" Apollo shakes his head. "That's going to be a problem, then, because I don't have any family waiting for me." (The closest he had to family was Clay, but Clay is dead, and he has been trying hard not to think about finding Clay here. It might make it too tempting to stay.) "There might not _be_ anything for me to follow other than pain. But if that's all I have, then that's what I'll use. Because I'm Apollo Justice, and I'm going to be absolutely _fine_!"

The stranger's expression shifts, a rapid drift from agony when Apollo says he has no family to an almost teary pride. "I think you'd be surprised what you'll have to follow, Apollo. But don't take my word for it. Close your eyes. You're safe here. Take a moment to just _be_ and see what you can feel or hear."

Apollo gives the stranger a skeptical look, but since he doesn't have any better ideas he closes his eyes. If this is anything like meditating, Apollo suspects he's going to fail—he tried meditation once, in college, and the instructor said that he had never seen anyone who took meditation as so much of a _challenge_ before.

With his eyes closed it's more obvious that the place they are isn't _normal_. The last note that the stranger had played continues to linger, an auditory perfume in the air, but the normal sounds of a building are missing. There is no creaking and groaning of settling boards, no sound of cars from outside.

Perhaps he shouldn't have closed his eyes. Sight has always been his most important sense, and without it he feels lost, disconnected. Is he still sitting on his chair? Does it matter since the chair isn't really _there_ , is some figment-fragment of this insane place?

— _a few days off—_

Apollo's eyes fly open on instinct, scanning the immediate vicinity for the source of the faint, barely-present voice—for _Trucy_. There is only the stranger in front of him, though, leaning forward once more with an eager, hopeful expression, and when he turns to scan the rest of the tables—

A new chord cuts through the air of the restaurant, a deep, booming _thrum_ that hurts Apollo's ears and vibrates nauseatingly in his gut. It shreds whatever remained of the lingering chord the stranger had played, and Apollo glares daggers at the source of the sound.

"Careful, careful." Daryan Crescend holds up an admonishing finger, his guitar hanging loosely on its strap. "Or you might find yourself all wrapped up in the music."

Strands of guitar wire dart up from the floor, twist and turn and tear at Apollo's wrists until they are wrapped tight, holding him in place. Turning his head to face the stranger, Apollo notes with a sinking heart that the man is similarly trapped.

Daryan stalks closer, giving a derisive sniff as his eyes rake over the room. "Where the hell are we?"

"Oklahoma, I think." The stranger seems unperturbed as he looks around. "Though maybe Cohdopia. Sometimes their architecture can look remarkably similar."

"Like _you_ ever traveled anywhere." Daryan sneers at the man. "What the hell kind of barrier was that? Pathetic. But being pathetic isn't a death sentence. Just stay there, old man, and let me deal with the one I've come here for."

"Oh, _please_." Apollo pulls against the guitar wires, stopping as they dig into his wrists more firmly—a pain sharper than the one in his chest, that drives the one in his chest further away. "What happened to you was your own damn fault, nothing to do with me or Klavier."

"You got me _killed_ , you pathetic little man." Daryan is closer still, leaning down so that his face is just slightly above Apollo's. "You and that ungrateful bastard. So I'm going to return the favor. I've already done a number on Klavier. You should've seen his face. So lost and confused."

"You leave him _alone_!" Apollo tries to surge to his feet and is stopped short by the wire—wires that dig into his skin now, a trickle of warm blood that feels all too real and familiar as it begins running down his forearms. "It was _your_ decision to try smuggling, _your_ decision to kill an FBI agent! He was supposed to be your _friend_ , and you _used_ him, you back-stabbing, greedy—"

Daryan straightens, adjusts his guitar so it sits properly, and strums a series of notes. They seem to burn through the air, bitter, angry, and Apollo leans back, biting down hard on his bottom lip. He won't give Daryan the satisfaction of hearing him scream in pain.

Another series of notes fills the air, gentle, soft, but somehow they insinuate themselves between Apollo and Daryan. Whipping his head around, Apollo sees that the stranger has managed to reach his guitar with his right hand and is plucking out carefully-chosen notes.

"Oh, no you don't." Daryan strikes another deep chord as he sneers at the stranger. "Music is _my_ thing, old man, and—"

The guitar strings binding the stranger to the chair come undone, and he calmly lifts his instrument into his lap, runs his hands over the strings. Another handful of shimmering notes fill the air, pushing back against Daryan's. "Do you know where power in the Labyrinth comes from, boys?"

Daryan scowls, playing another chord and then another, but neither is able to slip past the little tinkling series of notes.

The stranger smiles. "It comes from emotion. Good emotion, bad emotion—all that matters is the strength. And it's channeled in whatever way makes _sense_ to the person using it." His eyes rise to skewer Daryan, a look of utter disdain on his face. "Did you really think you could overpower _me_ with _music_? _Here?_ While I was defending _him_?"

"I'm one of the greatest musicians to ever live." Daryan smiles, but Apollo can see the strain in it, the cracks that had led to his break-down on the stand. "Part of one of the greatest _bands_ to ever be."

"You were part of a popular band that sold itself well. And maybe some of you had talent. But what makes a _musician_? What lets music be your power?" The stranger stands, his fingers still unerringly picking out notes, and Apollo could swear he _knows_ this song though he can't remember where he's heard it. "Maybe some people in your band knew it, but _you_ never will."

The stranger's song picks up tempo, and the wires binding Apollo slide away. He can see them vibrating in harmonies with the notes the stranger is playing.

"Close your eyes, Apollo." The stranger's voice is calm, composed. "You were hearing something before. Reach for it again. Follow it."

"But—"

"Trust me. Please." The stranger smiles. "The sooner we get you back on your path, the sooner I can deal with this brat, yeah?"

It takes an effort of will for Apollo to close his eyes—for him to try to look beyond the dueling melodies turning the restaurant into a battleground. He hears something explode near Daryan—a table, a drink, he can't say for certain—and purposefully turns away.

If Trucy is still there... if she's still calling for him...

— _the_ best _big brother—_

There is the softest, barely-there touch of someone's fingers against his, someone's lips against his right cheek, and Apollo turns to them, diving up a staircase that hadn't been there before.

He hesitates halfway up, turning to view the battle down below. Guitar wires slither and slide across the ground, a carpet that doesn't seem to know which musician to follow; objects leap off of tables, mugs and silverware flying this way and that.

"Go on, Apollo!" The stranger doesn't take his eyes off Daryan. "Find your way home."

Apollo hesitates a moment more, then turns to Daryan. "Go to _hell_ , you moron!"

 _Something_ rushes out from him, just as it had when he fought Dahlia. A wave of sheer force slams against Daryan, and he stumbles back, his hands sliding across the strings of his guitar and earning a shrill whine.

The stranger laughs, pressing forward to take the advantage that Apollo has given him, wading through a sea of wires that now seem poised to turn on Daryan.

Apollo skitters the rest of the way up the stairs, flings open the door, and staggers through.

As the door slides shut behind him, he hears the stranger one last time. "Tell your mother that her husband's going to keep waiting, for as long as it takes."

The door clicks shut, vanishing into the wall of lockers without a trace, leaving Apollo with a thousand questions and no good answers.

He considers trying to go back. He considers pounding against the wall or yelling at it until a door reappears.

What's that going to accomplish, though? If the man had intended to tell him more, he would have. Apollo has more important things to worry about.

Liking getting home to Trucy.

And maybe trying to find Klavier on the way and drag him along.

Placing a hand to his throbbing chest, Apollo closes his eyes, hoping for another sign to guide him. When nothing comes after a half a minute, he looks both ways down the hallway he's in—some kind of high school, he thinks—and just starts walking.

XXX

Klavier tries to take another step forward and finds that he can't.

He should be able to. There's nothing in front of him blocking his way. He's walking down a rather beautiful dirt road, trees arching overhead. It's not from anywhere close by—these types of maples only grow on the east coast, he thinks, though it's hard to remember—but it's calm and quiet and pleasant, and he should be able to keep moving.

Except he can't.

"Come on. You can do it, _ja_?" Klavier looks down at his feet, swaying with the motion. His head _hurts_ , pounding, driving pain that makes his vision fade in and out. "You're getting closer. So much closer. So... just... walk."

He can't, though, and after a few more failed attempts he sits down abruptly.

Probably he should move to the side of the road. Even in dreams, being hit by a car is unlikely to help much. Moving at all feels like too much effort, though, so he buries his head in his hands and wills the pain to fade back a bit.

Except not _too_ far back, because the pain is what he's following back to the land of the living, and—

"Oh, you poor thing."

The voice is soft, sweet, perfectly modulated. It's a performer's voice, Klavier immediately recognizes, but the woman isn't someone that he knows. That's good. He's not sure he could handle meeting any more vengeful spirits right now.

While he's still trying to squint his vision into focus someone lays a hand against his forehead, their touch cool and soothing. Red hair comes into focus, a cute little straw hat perched on the woman's head, and she smiles kindly at him. "Hi there. You look like you could use a hand."

"That... depends." Klavier swallows. "What kind of hand were you thinking of offering?"

"So suspicious!" The woman laughs. "Look, I don't know you, and you don't know me. But I do know what you are. You're working your way back to the land of the living, right?"

Klavier stays quiet, trying desperately to think around the pain and see if there's any reason he shouldn't agree with this woman.

"Don't bother to hide it." The woman leans forward, her lips brushing against his forehead.

Pain shoots through Klavier's whole body, a deep, throbbing agony, and he moans despite himself.

"The living have a taste." The woman flicks her tongue out over her lips. "A warmth." The woman gives her perfect, beatific smile again. "Do you need help?"

"No, _frau—_ " Klavier pauses, realizing with horror that he can't remember how the word ends. How can he not remember that? It's a word that _everyone_ knows, not just those who actually speak German, and—

"Some kind of head injury, huh?" The woman's finger reaches out, traces once more over the area she had kissed.

Again pain spikes through Klavier, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe or speak, completely consumed in agony.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" The woman puts her finger to her lips. "You're close, aren't you? It gets harder the closer you get. More painful." She leans closer to him. "But I know a secret way. A way to kind of... sneak up on life. If you want to come with me...?"

He reaches for her hand automatically, tempted by any offer of assistance, and then hesitates. He has no reason to trust this woman. Two years ago he probably would have gone with her, but now... "Who are you? Why... would you want to help me?"

"Because that's what people should _do_ , silly, right?" There is still that performer's edge to her voice—or rather a _lack_ of edge, a lack of authenticity, something that Klavier couldn't put his finger on but that he recognizes as faked.

Or perhaps she is just bad at communication? What she's _saying_ seems reasonable enough, and he doesn't really have many other options.

Reaching out hesitantly, he puts his hand in hers.

The woman smiles, and Klavier's eyes go wide as he realizes he has made a terrible mistake. Her eyes blaze bright, an inhuman red of fury and hatred, and her arms wrap tight around his chest.

Then they are falling, the ground opening up beneath them, and Klavier tries to fight but somehow the fall doesn't make the pain fade. Somehow _she_ is controlling the pain, he thinks, her laugh seeming to spread out and fill every nook and cranny, to resonate in his chest and skull and drive away all chance of escape. _Sorry, Byrne._ Klavier struggles to breathe through a mouth that tastes like blood. _I tried, but I guess—_

Then they stop.

The end of the fall is as abrupt as the beginning had been, a sudden crash into a hard-packed dirt road that is similar to but definitely not the same as the one they started on. Some kind of wall demarcating a village rises up several feet in front of Klavier, and there is a large stone with a rope trailing zig-zag papers hanging from it perhaps a hundred yards away.

"No!" The woman scrambles off him, her hair flying out to the side, her eyes still blazing inhumanly. "You stay _away_ from me, you—"

"Not on your life, cousin." A flock of flaming birds accompanies the woman's voice, diving down to peck and gouge at the red-head. A very good-looking woman in a miniskirt with a small green magatama as a necklace stalks towards them, her fingers twitching as she obviously controls the birds. "You thought because I wouldn't let you have Apollo that you could take him instead? Not on your life."

"I _will_ destroy one of them." The red-head reaches out, crushing one of the fire birds to ashes that she throws towards the newcomer. The ashes swirl up, out, becoming impossibly large, a tornado bearing down on Klavier's attempted rescuer. "He will mourn. The mourning will tear him apart, all mixed up with the anger and the bitterness and the grief he still feels about what Gavin did to him!" The barely-human red-head turns to him, her mouth open to show nothing but vicious fangs. "Useless, simpering child who can't even follow a case through properly! Traitor to your allies, bringer of pain to your friends—"

The woman with the fire-birds continues to stride toward them despite the wind, her face set in grim determination.

She is fighting for him—risking herself for him just as Byrne did.

And Klavier isn't going to let it be in vain, especially not when the best this woman can come up with is borrowed taunts that may have sounded true if coming from Daryan or Kristoph or even Phoenix Wright's mouth but seem like petty guesses coming from her.

Gregory had told him he could change things—resist things. Had told him to gather his power and find the vehicle that best represented it, and Klavier forces himself into a sitting position, forces his lungs to expand with deep breaths. The ash isn't real, he reminds himself; the cold winds slapping against him are just this woman-monster's power.

When he fought back against Daryan he had acted on instinct. This woman is stronger than Daryan, he can tell, and he doubts that just singing randomly will work. But perhaps if he chooses appropriately, finds a song that seems _right—_

Drawing one more deep breath, forcing himself to feel fierce and certain rather than foolish—this is just a concert of a different sort—Klavier starts singing. " _Some-where, over the rainbow—_ "

The effect isn't obvious immediately, but he knows that it's working because he can see the red-head's expression change, exultant fury giving way to puzzlement before understanding dawns and she shrieks out a negation.

Too late, though. The world is already changing, shifting, becoming what Klavier had wished for it to be. Grinning broadly, Klavier's rescuer darts to his side, sketching something in fire before her as she does. At first Klavier thinks it's going to be another bird, but then she grasps it tightly and he realizes it's a key made of flames—a key that she turns in the air before them as her hand touches his shoulder.

Between one instant and the next everything changes. The wind that had been tugging at his hair and clothes is gone, replaced by a gentle warm breeze. The rustle of trees is replaced by the sound of distant cars. The bright light of the village they had been in is replaced by the smog-heavy air of the city, though the sun beats down bright and cheery anyway, little sun-dogs dancing around it.

The woman sighs as she settles down next to Klavier. "That, my friend, was a very nice piece of work."

"Thank you." Klavier eyes the woman nervously. "Though if you'll forgive my being suspicious..."

"Don't worry about it. Dahlia has that effect on people." The woman gives her head a little shake. "I'm Mia Fey. I was Phoenix Wright's mentor."

"Wright's..." Klavier edges a little bit away from her.

"Peace, Gavin." Mia gives him a thin smile. "I spent a little while hating you for what you did, but it didn't take long to realize that you tried your best and were used just as much as Phoenix had been. And one true thing Dahlia told you was that you dying would be... difficult for Phoenix to cope with. Not impossible, not like Apollo's death, but more pain than I want him to have to go through right now. ...With right now really meaning _ever._ "

There is a weariness to Mia's eyes as she makes the addendum, and Klavier finds himself reaching for her hand without thinking, giving it a little comforting squeeze. "You care for him."

Mia smiles. "He was a good protege. Earnest and eager and _clever_ , even if not always the smartest. He went into the profession to help people, and he's done that. He's saved my sister more times than any reasonable person would have predicted. He avenged my death. He even finished all the tasks I left undone when I died."

"He's a good man." Klavier forces a smile, familiar guilt simmering in his chest.

"Yes. He is." Mia lifts her hand to touch his face, and the smile she gives him is fond and exasperated. (Her touch is nothing like Dahlia's. It feels _real_ , feels _human_ , does nothing to affect the pain now throbbing at a steady, manageable level in his head, and Klavier finds himself leaning into the contact before he thinks better of it.) "And he's surrounded himself with good men. Including you."

"You have been watching us, I take it?" Klavier arches an eyebrow.

"I watch Phoenix and my sister, mostly. Some of the other family when I get bored." Mia returns her hand to her side, shrugging. "Sometimes Phoenix's proteges. That's how I've seen you—when you've been interacting with them."

Klavier shoves a hand back through his bangs, grimacing at the tangled state his hair is in. "I'm afraid you haven't seen me at my best, then."

"I've found you tend to see what a person is really like when you see them at their worst. When you see them hurting, grieving, scared, angry—that's when you get a sense of who they really are." Mia smiles at him again. "And from what I've seen, you're a good man. So let's try to keep you alive, all right?"

"I am perfectly happy with that intention." Klavier tries to stand and decides that sitting for another minute or so is better. "Though I'm afraid I currently have no idea where we were, where we are, or what direction I'm supposed to be going."

"Where we were is easy enough. We were in a fragment of Kurain Village—my hometown and Dahlia's." Mia crosses her arms in front of her chest, turning away. "It was somewhere I knew I could break Dahlia's concentration—stop her from dragging you deeper into the labyrinth."

"Dragging me closer to death." The words come out flat.

Mia nods, brushing hair back behind her ear. "Dahlia was only half-sane to start with. She loathes both Phoenix and my family beyond all reason. Anything she thinks might have a remote chance of hurting them, she'll do."

"She seemed..." Klavier pictures the only vaguely-human face that had shrieked at him. "Different than Daryan or Blaise."

"She and I have been dead for a while." Mia shrugs. "When a spirit's been incorporeal for long enough but clings to the memories of the living, the land of the living... sometimes it's all right. Sometimes they're just waiting for people. Sometimes we can act as... guardian angels, of a sort, with very limited abilities. But sometimes... I'm not sure Dahlia is entirely human anymore."

Klavier's eyebrows arch up. "Not entirely human?"

"I'm fairly certain she's becoming some kind of yokai or demon. A creature that hunts down souls and tries to use the power it gains from them to affect the living world. They're vicious, cruel creatures." Mia shakes her head. "But they're not something we need to worry about right now."

"I find myself very worried about the possibility that—"

"All we need to do is worry about getting you out of here." Mia speaks firmly. "There are lots of paths you could take. I'll help you get onto one. As for the answer to your last question about where we are..." Mia stands and wobbles her way to the edge of the roof, peering over. Her eyes are wide when she turns back to Klavier. "The roof of the Prosecutor's Office?"

Klavier nods, relieved that everything went as planned, accepting the topic change with as much grace as he can muster. "I spent a lot of time up here when I was younger. A friend and I would come up when we needed fresh air, or to talk over a case. One time there were sun dogs— _those_ sun dogs, or at least ones that looked very similar but were actually real—and Sebastian got excited about them. I sang a bit of _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_. Turned out he had never seen _The Wizard of Oz_. Can you imagine? A true travesty, _ja_? So I sang the whole silly song, and watched it with him that weekend. I didn't know for _sure_ that it would work, but Mr. Edgeworth had said singing was my power, and we needed to get away... I did the best I could, _fraulein_."

He has been rambling, words tripping one after another with anxiety. The German word slides out easily, appropriately, and stops the stream abruptly.

"Klavier?" Mia takes a few steps back towards him. "Are you all right?"

"Apparently not. Apparently I am at death's door, and there are ghosts who would like to make sure it closes with finality behind me." Klavier lifts a hand to his head. "And I think... I think I am very badly hurt. Physically."

Mia settles next to him, takes his right hand in hers again. "Would it help you to know or make things harder?"

"Likely make things harder, since you ask and do not immediately reassure me I will have a swift and speedy recovery." Klavier clasps the woman's fingers tightly. "But I will just wonder, so if you know..."

"I wasn't there, but Gregory was. Gregory Edgeworth." Mia speaks in a calm, even tone, and Klavier can tell from the way she talks and the way she watches him that she has experience giving bad news. (It is a look all detectives and many prosecutors learn, a way to help the grieving without making yourself vulnerable to their pain. Do defense attorneys learn it too, or is this from somewhere else?) "He tends to follow his son Miles a lot, and also to keep tabs on those Miles cares about. He says that you were shot once in the head; Apollo was shot twice in the chest."

"Apollo." Klavier straightens abruptly, guilt churning in his gut again but for a different reason. "You mentioned him before, to Dahlia. He's not... he's here, too?"

Mia nods. "He's here. He's fighting his way out. You were a little ahead of him before Dahlia decided to target you; now he's probably a little ahead of you."

Klavier scrambles to his feet, ignoring the dizziness that suggests he lie down. "If Apollo's here, I have to find him. I have to help him. This is—"

" _Not_ your fault." Mia has stood with him, and despite his tugging holds tight to his hand. "I've seen a lot of people grieve over the years, Klavier. It's what Kurain does. I know it can be tempting to blame yourself—to say if only you had done something different, maybe things wouldn't have happened the way they did. But you can't change the past. You can only do better going forward. And kicking yourself for the past won't help. Neither will taking blame for the actions of someone else—someone that you were very rightly trying to put behind bars."

Klavier draws a shuddering breath. "Apollo is... doing all right?"

Mia nods. "Like I said, he's probably ahead of you right now. How about we see if we can get you back on the right track and maybe slide you ahead of your rival there."

Klavier shakes his head. "I won't leave without him. If he's here, I have to find him and—"

"We're helping him. Just like we're helping you." Mia gives his hand a little squeeze. "Focus on getting out. Trust us to protect him."

Opening his mouth to argue, Klavier finds himself cut off by a roll of thunder in the distance.

Mia turns to face the dark clouds spreading across the horizon, cursing eloquently under her breath.

"That one doesn't stop, does she?" Gregory Edgeworth is suddenly standing on Mia's other side, pulling his hat down to shade his eyes as he studies the approaching storm. He is breathing quickly, but otherwise seems unharmed. "Sorry it took me a bit to catch up with you. You Feys can really book it through the Labyrinth."

"Sometimes for good, sometimes for ill." Mia spins to Klavier. "What had you been using to find your way?"

Klavier swallows, remembering the debilitating agony that had frozen him in place before. "The pain. But I... when Dahlia found me, I couldn't make myself go forward. I was _trying_ , but..."

Mia shakes her head. "You can't _just_ use the pain. It can give you a connection, sure, but it's also a reminder of all the healing you've got to do, all the work that's awaiting you. Find the other connections and follow them."

Lightning stabs down onto the building next to them, a crackle of electricity through the air that causes Klavier's hair to stand on end. Mia's face pales, and she shoves him towards the other side of the roof, turning to face the storm and the figure becoming visible at the center of it.

An arm slides across his shoulders, and Gregory Edgeworth guides him to the far side of the roof. "Mia's right—she frequently is. The pain is one guidepost, but it's a double-edged one. Other things, though—can you trust me enough to close your eyes?"

Klavier hesitates, wanting to look back over his shoulder, to see what is happening with Mia and Dahlia as the wind continues to pick up, howling loud around him. Then he gives a decisive nod.

"Okay. Good. Then close your eyes. Try to ignore all this." Gregory's voice has risen almost to a shout to be heard above the wind.

Klavier tries, but all he can feel is the wind scratching over his skin, his hair tugging hard against his scalp. All he can hear is the howl of sirens in the distance—tornado sirens? His fault or Dahlia's?

Something warm is suddenly plonked down onto his head, and a jacket wraps itself around his shoulders.

Opening his eyes, Klavier stares at a hatless, jacketless Gregory Edgeworth.

Gregory smiles, a tiny, almost apologetic expression, and shrugs. "Try again."

Closing his eyes once more, Klavier does. With the jacket and the hat and the weight of Gregory's hands on his shoulders, things are... not _calm_ , but he's able to separate himself from the storm better. Is able to hum a handful of notes, the intro bars to _Guitar's Serenade_ , and the warmth and thickness of the jacket is comforting as it keeps out the wind...

— _miss you—_

Klavier's eyes fly open again as he looks for the source of the barely-audible words. Surely Trucy isn't also—

Gregory's hand grabs his jaw, turns his head so that they're face to face, eye to eye. "You heard something?"

Klavier nods, not trusting his voice to be heard over the howl of the storm that is starting to pelt rain and hail down mere feet from where they're standing—where Mia has drawn a battle-line of fire.

"Listen again." Gregory's hands both return to Klavier's shoulders. "Find the threads and follow them!"

It's easier the second time. Now that he knows what he's listening for, what he's trying to grasp onto; now that he knows how to center himself, to ignore all that's happening and just accept the protection he's being given—

— _prettiest, nicest prosecutor at the office—_

Definitely Trucy's voice, meaning... what? That she's with his body? But she should be with Apollo, if Apollo's hurt—unless Apollo has already worked his way out of the Labyrinth?

A phantom touch of her fingers squeezing his, achingly familiar, and Klavier's hand clenches hard as he reaches for the contact.

" _There_ we go!" Gregory's whoop of victory is barely intelligible over the storm. "Go on, son! Let's follow your thread."

Klavier opens his eyes to see a doorknob in his hand where he wishes Trucy's fingers were, an open door standing in empty air before him. A gentle shove from Gregory sends him stumbling through, and Gregory follows behind, shutting the door and leaving the roof and the storm far away.

Gregory leans against a smooth wall where the door had been and heaves a sigh. "Don't worry about Mia. If she needs to she'll get out of there now." Gregory wipes a hand across his brow.

Taking the hat off his head, Klavier offers it wordlessly back to the older man.

The smile on Gregory's face as he accepts and adjusts the hat is wider this time. "Thanks."

" _Bitte_." Klavier waves a hand, realizes Gregory's jacket is still slung over his shoulders, and goes to shrug out of it.

"Keep it if you want, for now." Gregory shrugs, adjusting his hat once more. "A little extra protection can't hurt, given what's hunting us."

Klavier hesitates. "But you—"

"Will be fine." Gregory waves a hand. "Spirits _can_ be destroyed, but it takes an awful lot of work. Whereas severing you from your body... that would be a lot easier. So let me protect you, and trust me to get out of a situation that I don't think I can win."

"If... you're certain..." The sleeves of the jacket are just slightly too long, the shoulders a little too broad as Klavier shrugs into it.

"I am. Miles has a hard enough time finding decent people. We don't need to let some of the ones he has get broken." Gregory shoves his hands into his pockets. "So. What direction should we go?"

The pain is starting to build again in his head, but it feels less real than the lingering sense of warmth on his hand. Clenching his fingers tight, trying to keep the memory of Trucy's touch from fading, Klavier nods down the hallway. "That way."

Gregory nods, falling into step at Klavier's side as they begin walking.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter Four**_

 _I don't want them to be alone._

There had been so many emotions tangled in Trucy's voice, so much discord between the smile on her face and the unreasoning terror that Athena could hear being held on a tight leash, it had taken all Athena's strength of will not to flinch away.

Pulling back would have been the worst thing she could do. Though it's not what either one was supposed to mean, between her Gramarye performer training and hearing Mr. Wright say repeatedly that the darkest times are when you have to smile the most, Trucy has learned to bury her own feelings in order to project an air of confidence and competence. If _Athena_ had pulled away from her when she was actually willing to show vulnerability, it would have made her double-down on the act.

"We're kind of a messed-up group, huh, Apollo? Always fine even when we're really, really not." Athena speaks in a quiet whisper, crossing the distance to Apollo's side with legs that feel too shaky and weak to hold her.

Tracing her fingertips lightly over Apollo's hand—the one that has the least medical paraphernalia attached to it—Athena bites down on her bottom lip. What does she do now? Should she talk to him?

Her eyes flick towards Kay, who is bent down by Klavier's head. She is speaking in a quiet whisper, but Athena's ears still let her pick up a few of the words.

— _fight—vengeance—Yatagarasu—_ please _—_

There is so much pain and desperation on that last word that Athena shakes her head, using the rattle of her earring and an intense focus on her own breathing to drown out any other words. Whatever the message is, it's not meant for her. She should—

"You're the shrink, right?"

Athena jumps, her fingers clenching hard around Apollo's hand as she turns to face Kay. "Ah—probably. You're Kay Faraday, right? We met at the Christmas party, though you might not remember me. Athena Cykes, defense attorney."

"Definitely the one I'm thinking of, then. He likes you—thinks you and Apollo make a good team." Kay's arms are crossed in front of her chest. It's a gesture that could look intimidating, but right now it looks more defensive. (There is a lot of her bearing that reminds Athena of Miles Edgeworth when he is upset.) "I have to go make a phone call—I promised someone I'd let him know how things are as soon as I got to see Klavier. Could you... I know it's probably silly, but Klavier doesn't... like being alone. So..."

This woman isn't used to asking. She is used to demanding, to insisting, to ensuring that she gets what she needs. Athena can hear it in her voice—a steel that has been splintered, that is being intentionally held back, that has been laced around with pain that has dulled the usually-sharp edge.

Kay has buried other people, and she is trying hard not to imagine burying Klavier. Athena knows it as surely as if Kay had shouted it out loud.

"I'll stay with them." Athena's voice is rough, husky, and she forces herself to breathe in through her nose, out through her mouth. (She has never liked hospitals. They hurt her ears, a cacophony of despair and hope and love and agony, but she couldn't _not_ come for this.) "Talk with them. Make sure they're not alone. And if I need to leave, I'll make sure someone else comes in if you're not back."

"Okay." The relief in Kay's voice—shimmering, shining—is just as intense as all the woman's other emotions, ringing bright in Athena's ears. "Thank you."

Kay turns and walks away, already pulling a phone from her pocket. She pauses in the doorway, looking back at Athena. "When you... if you talk to him... call him Klavier, okay?"

Athena doesn't even have time to answer before Kay is gone. Turning back to Apollo, Athena sets his fingers gently back down on the bed and smooths her hand over them. "I'm not really quite sure where to start. I mean... this has made quite the splash, Apollo. Which you probably wouldn't believe, because you've always had such a hard time imagining people care about and worry about you. But they do. Trucy's... well, you heard from Trucy yourself. And I..."

Athena's voice cracks, and she takes a moment to stabilize her breathing. "You've been a lot of help to me. A great teacher, and also a really good friend. It wouldn't have been the same without you. I wouldn't be _here_ today without you. I know things have sometimes been tense between us, but..."

He shouldn't be quiet like this. Apollo is _never_ quiet, demanding that people listen and _care_ and pay attention to what he's saying. He is polite almost to a fault, but it's a _demanding_ politeness, a politeness that won't be turned away without at least making sure it's been heard.

Since he can't talk, she'll have to talk for both of them. Bending down, she presses a brief kiss to his forehead. If he were conscious, it would cause him to stop, frozen, unable to determine why she was doing it—wondering if she was teasing him. And maybe she _would_ be teasing him, but that's not something she can do right now. Right now, she needs to be just as direct and blunt as he can be. "I just want you to wake up, 'Pollo. Wake up and tell me how ridiculous and insane this whole thing is. All right?"

Does his breathing hitch a little bit? Does the steady fogging and clearing of the plastic mask keeping pure oxygen pumping into his lungs change at all? It's probably just wishful thinking, she knows, but she'll still ask if Trucy noticed anything of the sort when she talked with Apollo.

Wiping at her cheeks, trying to keep more tears from leaking down, Athena crosses the distance to the other side of the room and a man she is less familiar with. "H-hey, Prosecutor Gavin. I mean, Klavier."

He's going to be upset about how he looks. It's something silly, Athena thinks, but it also keeps springing back to the forefront of her thoughts. She's hasn't had the pleasure of meeting Klavier often, but she's liked him the times she's met him. She's also noted that appearance is important to him—that he holds himself carefully, grooms himself carefully. The way he looks now... well, they'll deal with that when they come to it. "It seems like you've got some really good friends. Ms. Faraday... she cares about you a lot. She's going to be back to talk to you later, too. She's just calling another one of your friends. You're a pretty popular guy, huh?"

No change, no shift in the steady rise and fall of Klavier's chest. There wouldn't be, though, would there? It's a machine breathing for him.

"You've got a lot of friends who are going to be here for you." Athena allows her fingers to rest over his long, lean ones. Piano player's fingers, she would have said, except he's a singer and a guitarist. "I'm going to be here for you. Just like you've been here for me, and for Juniper. I haven't forgotten how kind you were to her when you didn't need to be. How you..."

Athena has to stop, to close her eyes and concentrate on her breathing. Juniper had been so _happy_ when discussing working with Klavier—so proud of the work she had done, and also so giddy to be performing with an actual star. And Klavier had been kind, even though she could hear grief in his voice from the time Constance Courte's body was discovered, hear _something_ lingering beneath the surface of the words when he introduced the song he and Juniper sang.

"You're a good man." Athena squeezes her fingers around his. "And we're going to get through this together. You, me, Apollo, Trucy, Kay and everyone—we're going to make it through."

It hasn't been very long, but Athena can hear Gumshoe talking to Kay in the hall, the two of them exchanging greetings with the ease and comfort of old, old friends.

Moving back to Apollo's side, Athena smooths his little hair-horns flat and gives his forehead one more kiss. "I'm going to go help Trucy. You keep fighting, 'Pollo. We'll talk as soon as you're ready."

Turning to the door, Athena swipes a hand over her face. She's fairly certain she only succeeds in smearing the tears around, but maybe that's at least a step in the right direction.

XXX

"Kay." Gumshoe's hand reaches out towards her as Kay returns to the high-security ICU ward that houses Klavier and his defense attorney.

"Hey, Gummy." Kay considers holding herself back—considers whether this will break the facade of calm that she is holding tight around herself—and then decides against it. Gummy doesn't deserve to be hurt because she's hurting, though the best thing about Gummy is that he would understand and not blame her for keeping distance between them.

Instead she sinks into his embrace, allows one of his hands to stroke across her hair while the other pats her back. "I'm sorry, Kay. I'm real sorry this happened."

"Not your fault." Kay keeps her head buried against his jacket, counting her breaths. She mustn't cry in front of strangers, and that includes all the doctors currently milling about and sending dirty looks towards the rotating crowd of people outside this room.

"Doesn't mean I can't be sorry." Gumshoe continues to pet her hair, comforting her as he would one of his police dogs. "I like Prosecutor Gavin, and I know he's a good friend o' yours. And the Justice kid, too... it sucks."

"Yeah." Kay gives a weak little laugh. "It does."

"It's wrong and it's not fair and it sucks, but we're gonna pull through." Gumshoe shifts, lifting her chin with one hand. "I promise. Whatever it takes, we'll make sure the bastards who did this pay, and that they're all right."

"We will." Kay doesn't know if there's a way for Klavier to be all right with what's happened, with the scars that he'll bear. Doesn't know if it will _be_ Klavier who wakes up in that bed, assuming anyone does. Saying things like that is asking for them to come true, though, so she'll screw up her courage and act like everything's going to be all right. "The people who did this—"

"We picked up the sniper an hour ago." Gumshoe's expression turns stern. "And Mr. Edgeworth knows who hired 'em and has him in custody. You don't have to do anythin', Kay, 'cept help Klavier as much as you think you can. The Yatagarasu doesn't need to find justice this time."

Kay bites the inside of her cheek, nodding. It's good, that they've managed to track down the perpetrators without the Yatagarasu's help. It shouldn't make her feel more hollow and fragile, not having to go out and hunt down the culprits on her own.

Athena pushes her way out of the room, offering a watery, tear-strained smile to Kay as she passes. "All yours. Though I'll be back in a little bit, if that's okay."

Kay nods, watching as Athena walks away—heading in the same direction Trucy went, if Kay's any judge.

Gumshoe pats her shoulder gently once more. "You want t' go see 'im again?"

No. Not like this. Not broken and patched together, kept alive by machines. Is this better or worse than when he father died? Better, because as least Klavier's not dead yet? Worse, because now there is all this infernal, helpless waiting? She can't _not_ go see him, though—can't leave him alone when he's fighting for every breath. "Yeah. Keep up the good guard dogging, Gummy."

The curtain swishes around her as she pushes through it, and Kay strides immediately to Klavier's side. She won't be intimidated. She won't allow the hiss of the machines or the stillness of the body or the whiteness of the bandages where there should be pale blond hair frighten her. "Hey, Klavier. Still getting into trouble whenever I'm not around to help you, huh?"

He doesn't respond. Of course he doesn't. What did she expect?

(She doesn't expect a miracle, but she hopes for one. They are _due_ one, aren't they?)

One of his hands is atop the sheet, fingers slightly crooked. His fingers don't move, don't keep time or tap out a tempo, and Kay shifts her own questing fingers from there to his face. The bandage material is surprisingly soft, and when her fingers slide from it to the skin of his cheek she lets out a sigh of relief. It still _feels_ like him, even if there isn't the animation that there usually is to his body. "I suppose this one isn't your fault, though. You won fair and square. But some people don't play fair."

It's why the Yatagarasu is still needed occasionally, despite what Edgeworth wants to believe. Some people believe the system is just a game, the people in it pawns to be harassed from square to square. Some people are _rewarded_ for that terrible behavior, given power that they shouldn't be, and when it's necessary to bring them down... well, she lets Edgeworth take first crack at them, usually. But she's not going to let justice slip away just because the law says she should.

"Edgeworth's going to make the people who did this pay." Kay leans forward, whispering into Klavier's ear. "They should be grateful for that, because otherwise I'd have to."

Talking about vengeance isn't going to make Klavier feel better, though. Talking about vengeance will just lead to him thinking about his brother, about Daryan, about Phoenix Wright—about all the myriad ways his life has gone wrong in the last two years. Talking about vengeance is something she's doing for herself, not for him, so she forces herself to take a deep breath and talk about something else.

"Sebastian's going to be by to see you once work's out. He's a little nervous, but he said if there's even a chance it'll help..." Kay's fingers curl, stroking down Klavier's cheek—avoiding the breathing tube that is taped to his mouth. "I told him of course it'll help. You're a guy who likes people, and likes people paying attention to you. People who actually like you, at least. And he does. We do."

Kay straightens, wiping her free hand across her face. "I expect you to be awake and teasing me again tomorrow, just so you know. And a great thief doesn't like being disappointed."

Does Klavier's breathing rhythm hitch, just a bit? Does his head move just the tiniest amount?

It doesn't happen again, and Kay turns to face the other bed.

She's not as familiar with Apollo personally, but knowing Klavier for the last two years has meant knowing _of_ Apollo, at least. Klavier can't seem to decide if he's flirting with or fighting with or working with the defense attorney. Perhaps all three at once—she certainly wouldn't put that past him.

Marching over to Apollo's bed, she stares down at his slack features. "Don't you dare die. Got it? If you die, Klavier's going to be upset. Trucy's going to be upset. Both these things will make _me_ upset, and you don't want to do that. Don't make me have to figure out how to go steal a soul and bind it into a body. We'll end up with zombies or vampires or golems or something else weird, and nobody wants that."

Apollo's forehead seems to wrinkle a little bit, an expression of stubborn determination. Or maybe that's just his default expression? Kay can't say for sure.

"Okay. That's my sentimental bit." That's all she thinks she can say without bursting into tears, and what good will _that_ do anyone? "So now the two of you get to deal with me telling you about my day, at least until someone else comes by who wants to see you..."

XXX

Edgeworth summons Bass to one of the interrogation rooms, his folder of information about the case tucked under his arm. He calls and has the transfer of rooms made twenty minutes before he actually arrives. Proper interrogation technique usually involved keeping people off-guard, and one of the standard procedures is to leave someone in an interrogation room to stew. Since Edgeworth knows he doesn't have the patience to arrange the room and then wait right now, he has the guards watch his suspect while he drives, achieving the same end result.

He keeps his expression cold and unreadable as he stalks into the room. When he sets the file—Klavier's file, originally, but Prosecutor Gavin won't need it for a little bit—down on the table, he does so carefully, methodically, every motion controlled.

(If he doesn't control himself, he will do something he can't take back. He will hurt this man who has somehow managed to hurt him deeply—who has hurt _Trucy_ , and Phoenix, and so many others.)

Bass doesn't seem discomfited by his wait. He smiles up at Edgeworth, hands spread as far as his handcuffs will allow. "The Chief Prosecutor himself. I am so deeply honored."

Edgeworth ignores the barbed words. "I'm sure you're aware of why you're here, Mr. Bass."

"I'm aware of why _I'm_ here—there are a great many false accusations flying about." Bass smiles, a slow, predatory spread of his lips away from his teeth. "But why are _you_ here, my good man? Whatever happened to the young idiot who was prosecuting this egregious case?"

The breath that Edgeworth draws in wants to choke him, but he allows no sign of that to touch his face. This is a chess match, and it's one that he's going to win. He mustn't fall for the feint, keeping his eyes instead on the king. "Do you still want to claim that you had nothing to do with the murders Prosecutor Gavin has connected you with?"

"If he's so certain of his connections, why isn't he here?" Bass appears puzzled by Edgeworth's lack of response, the way he places emphasis in his sentence clearly designed to hurt.

"You are a murderer." Edgeworth speaks in blunt terms, leaving Bass little opportunity to evade. "Whether you pulled the trigger or not, you have arranged for the deaths of many innocents."

"There are very few innocents in the world, Prosecutor Edgeworth." Bass' smile disappears. "Surely you, of all people, recognize that."

"There are very few who deserve to die, either." Edgeworth narrows his eyes, raking his gaze up and down Bass' body dismissively. "But there are some. Just so you know, Mr. Bass, I'm going to watch you hang."

Bass snorts out a laugh. "Big words from a man who can't even protect his own."

 _That's it_. Edgeworth doesn't allow his expression to change. _Keep walking into the trap._ "If you're referring to the attempt on Ms. Sin's life, I regret to inform you that it was a complete failure. She is in protective custody as we speak, enjoying a very nice dinner and singing like the most beautiful songbird about your organization."

There is just the slightest clenching of Bass' jaw, though he tries to wave a hand dismissively. "I said nothing about Ms. Sin. If you're trying to connect any attempt on her life to me, I would like to remind you that I've been here all day. In your custody."

"So you have." Edgeworth gives a brief nod. "I am well aware of your location, Mr. Bass. I am also going to watch you hang."

Bass shifts in his seat, glancing towards first the door and then the one-way glass that lines the wall behind Edgeworth.

"Oh, don't worry." Edgeworth gives a predatory smile of his own. "I'm not going to kill you here. I'm going to prosecute the case properly. You'll be convicted. You'll spend between four and eight years on death row. Your appeals will run out. I will still be there, presenting my evidence and request for your death at each one. And eventually, I will watch you hang."

"You can't threaten me." Bass' voice is a deep rumble, his cheeks flushing with anger. "You have _nothing_ on me."

"I attended my first execution when I was eleven years old. It wasn't a very pretty one." Edgeworth doesn't modulate his voice. The calm, detached recitation of facts seems to be upsetting Bass, so Miles will stick with it. "I don't know if the executioner was new, or if there was a mistake made with the rope, or if the man I attended the execution with arranged for it to be like that. However it came to be, the man's neck didn't break, and he wasn't properly strangling, either. He dangled for over eight minutes, sputtering, gagging, vomiting, before the executioner decided to try to rectify things. When the poor man attempted to lift the prisoner's body to adjust the rope, so the execution could be completed, he was kicked in the face. There was blood everywhere. After that, they let the man simply hang until he died. It took twenty-five minutes." Miles pauses. "Perhaps we'll be able to extend that length for you."

"For what crime?" Bass' voice is practically purple with fury.

"You know for what crime." Gathering up his file, Miles stands. "I think we've spoken enough for the moment. Perhaps in an hour or two I'll feel more like continuing this."

It's a gamble. If he's wrong, and Bass isn't as furious as he thinks, this will become a long, ugly night of grueling questioning.

He's not wrong. Before he's even put his hand on the doorknob, Bass is spitting invectives at him. "I hope they died slowly. I hope you hated yourself every minute that you watched the two of them die. I hope your pretty little prosecutor haunts your dreams."

"My pretty little prosecutor?" Edgeworth turns back to his prisoner. "Prosecutor Gavin is mine only insofar as we both seek justice. And no, he isn't dead. He's going to be just fine, I assure you."

"Liar. If he were fine, he would be here, rather than you." Bass smiles, gesturing up and down Edgeworth's form. "I also think I need a new defense attorney, don't you?"

"I don't think any defense attorney in the world can help you now, Mr. Bass. How do you know that Prosecutor Gavin and Mr. Justice were targeted?" Edgeworth turns back to face the man, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Bass sputters for a moment before making a vague gesture. "It's been all over the news."

"It has been. But you have had no opportunity to watch the news. As you said, you have been in my custody all day, and I have _ensured_ you had no access to it." Edgeworth stalks back to the table. "As I have ensured you were told nothing about any of the incidents that you instigated. Incidents which I can now cleanly, clearly link back to you as a mastermind."

Breath wheezes in and out of Bass' test for a few seconds. "I should have had you targeted, instead."

"Yes." Edgeworth straightens, taking a step back from the table. "You should have."

Bass doesn't move as Edgeworth stalks to the door again. Turning with his hand on the knob, Edgeworth studies Bass with cold eyes. "I also meant what I said about watching you die. Just in case you were trying to convince yourself it was all an act."

He doesn't wait to see if Bass reacts. If he is lucky, he will give the man nightmares.

They will be nothing in comparison to the nightmares Miles is going to have, but at least they will be a little bit of vengeance.

Right now, it seems to be all he can offer anyone.

XXX

Ema gives a little wave with her right hand as she comes up to Detective Gumshoe. Her superior raises a hand in response, summoning a tired, worn smile. "Hey there, Ema. You going to be my replacement?"

Ema nods, popping a snackoo in her mouth. "You and me are pretty much the two people Edgeworth trusts most, so it's going to be a few pretty long days for us."

"It would've been long days anyway." Gumshoe shrugs. "If I can make it a little easier on some of our pals by bein' here, nowhere else I'd rather be."

"So." Ema fingers the straps of her bag nervously. "Anything I should know?"

"Well, there's s'posed to be no more than two guests visiting at a time. Doctors and nurses are comin' around on a fifteen minute rotation." Gumshoe checks off points on his fingers. "I'll make sure you know the ones who've been on this evenin', and no one new's allowed unless they're with someone you already recognize who doesn't look like they're under duress."

Ema nods. "Anyone in there right now?"

"Trucy." Gumshoe's expression falls, becoming that of a great dane puppy who doesn't know how to make his human cheer up. "She's the one who's been in and out the most. Probably Mr. Wright's gonna be along soon t' try to get her to sleep."

"They're staying in the hotel rooms?" Ema really doesn't have to ask. When Edgeworth had said he secured rooms for those keeping vigil, there had been little doubt in her mind about who was at the top of that list.

Gumshoe nods, hands sliding into his pockets, shoulders still drooping. "Not sure she's actually been t' the rooms, though."

Ema glances at the clock near the nurse's station. "Aren't visiting hours over?"

A hint of a smile returns to Gumshoe's face as he cocks his head. " _You_ gonna be the one t' tell Mr. Edgeworth that him and his family have to stop bein' here? Especially when we've got the place under police protection?"

"I see your point and pity the nurse or doctor who tried."

"I doubt the docs would. Mr. Edgeworth's the one who brought them in, after all." Gumshoe sighs, smile disappearing. "The next rotation should be by in five minutes or so. After that, if you don't mind me runnin' to get a bite to eat..."

"That sounds like a good idea. In the meantime..." Ema nods toward the door. "Mind if I go check on Trucy?"

It sounds almost normal, when she says it like that. Almost like any other day, not like _this_ day, and that helps Ema keep her tone calm and bland.

"Go for it." Gumshoe holds open the curtain for her, expression softening with sympathy as he does. "I've had a chance t' talk to 'em. You should too."

"It's not—that is, I don't..." Ema trails off, shoulders slumping, and makes her way into the hospital room.

Trucy is sitting on a rolling chair next to Justice's bed, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, her fingers picking out patterns on his bare arm. She is saying something so quietly Ema can't hear, though when Ema enters the room she looks up, eyes wide, and forces a smile. "Hi, Ema! Long time no see."

"Hey, Trucy." Ema takes a few steps closer to the girl. "How're they... you..."

Ema curses silently. She's no good at this—at grieving, at comforting, at _any_ of it.

"They're both hanging in there." Trucy turns her chair towards Gavin's bed and sends it sailing across the distance with a push off from Justice's medical cocoon. "They took the respirator off Klavier. Said that at least some of the swelling had gone down and he was breathing on his own okay. That's got to be good, right?"

Ema opens her mouth, and then shuts it without saying anything. They haven't declared Klavier brain-dead, so there must still be some hope, but her eyes still don't want to focus on the still, helpless form on the bed. "Every little step forward's good."

"That's what I think, too. Every little step back to us has to be a good thing." Trucy's voice grows rough, cracking on the _us_ , and she turns her face away from Ema. "Are you going to be the night guard?"

"For the moment, yeah." Ema takes another hesitant step towards the young woman. "So if you need anything tonight..."

"I'll probably see you at least some." Trucy turns back to Ema, but her eyes are shiny, her cheeks red with the strain of not crying. "But right now I should go see Daddy for a little bit. Let you visit with them."

"If you want. But I can also step back outside, if you'd rather—" Ema stops speaking as lithe, strong arms wrap around her, pulling her into an unexpected hug.

Trucy is crying again, her tears silent as they soak into Ema's jacket and leave a damp spot behind. "I need a little bit of a break. If you don't mind. But we can't leave them alone. We absolutely can't. So if you'd watch them... talk to them..."

Settling her arm gently around Trucy's shoulders, Ema hugs the young woman to her. "I can do that."

"Thanks, Ema." Trucy doesn't sniffle as she pulls away, keeping her head down, her tears hidden. "Me or 'Thena or one've the others will be back in a few, so you can take up the watch and Detective Gumshoe can go home."

The girl doesn't give Ema a chance to answer before she's heading to the door, motions quick and almost angry, head still held low to hide the evidence of her grief.

Drawing in a slow breath, Ema holds it to the count of five. Then she lets it out and approaches Apollo's bedside.

Justice looks... small, like this. Younger than his age, which is always true, but at least there's usually a fire and energy and sharpness radiating off him to help her accept that he really is an adult. Laid out so still and helpless, she could easily imagine he was just a teenager, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"But that wouldn't be fair to you, huh, Justice?" Ema runs her tongue over her lips, moistening them, strengthening her voice. "You chose to be here. You always choose to take the risks. You're just as stubborn as I was when I first met Mr. Wright and Mr. Edgeworth."

A stubbornness that hasn't faded with time and all the scars she's seen him receive, and Ema has to respect the defense attorney for that. She almost reaches for his hand, but her fingers don't quite make contact, instead diving for the strap of her bag again. "I know you can't hear me. Or at least, scientifically speaking, you _probably_ can't hear me. Probably everything I'm saying is a waste of my breath. But I like Trucy. She's like the little sister I never had. And she wants to make sure you aren't alone, which... which I like. No one should be alone for going through something like this."

Does Apollo's breathing hitch a little bit? If it does, it's probably because of the bullets that ripped his lungs to shreds, not anything she's saying.

"So. We're here. I'm going to be keeping watch over you tonight, and if anyone tries to hurt you again I'm going to kill them. No warning, no mercy shots. Mr. Edgeworth's orders, and also... what I want to do." Ema leans a little bit closer to the bed. "I'm sorry we couldn't protect you, Justice. You're a good, strong, stubborn man, and you should never have had to suffer like this for trying to do your job and do it right. So I'm going to do my best to make up for it. And that means... well, if you can, waking up soon would be nice. Trucy's really worried about you."

Another little stutter of Apollo's breathing, and this time Ema is certain she saw it. Glancing at the monitors surrounding the bed, she reassures herself that his blood oxygenation levels are still good, that his pulse is still steady. When no alarms start sounding, she forces herself to relax. "Right. Well. Maybe I'll see you when you wake up, provided you hop to it and actually do it in the next few hours."

There's no further response from Apollo, so Ema turns around, approaching the other still figure in the room.

"Hi, Gavin." Ema's voice sticks in her throat as she stares down at the still form. "This... wasn't really how I was planning to meet up with you again."

Anger flares up, hot and bright. She shouldn't _be_ here. She shouldn't be worrying about what Gavin's going to think about his stupid hair when he wakes up. About what this is going to do to his career. About if he's going to _have_ a career. About if he's still going to be _Gavin_ when—if—he wakes up. "This is a really shitty way to get sympathy, you know?

"Except... that's not what this is." As quickly as it came the anger fades back, because it's not really aimed at Klavier. Hasn't ever really been aimed at Klavier, but at all the things he represented for her—all the broken parts of the system that let him waltz between lives as though prosecuting were a _game_ for him to play on the side. "I'm sorry. I know... we haven't always gotten along. I think you're vain, and for a supposedly smart man you can be woefully naive, and you treat your whole life like it's some big role for you to perfect.

"But you're really trying. I know you've given up a lot the last year to focus on your prosecuting job. And I know you take it seriously." Ema's hands are strangling her bag straps again. "You're still ridiculously glimmerous, but you know, there are worse crimes in the world. Like all the _actual_ crimes we've both seen. So if you pull through this... if you keep fighting... I'm going to do everything I can to see you standing in court again. Because that's where you belong.

"Just like I belong in forensics. But hey, I might actually be getting there." A sad smile plays at the corners of Ema's mouth. "I didn't get a chance to tell you before. I retook the tests, and I think they actually went really well this time. I won't know for another few weeks but, well... if I'm going to get my dream, I don't want it to be soured by you losing yours. Okay?"

Her vision is misty, and Ema blinks, clearing her throat. "Damn. Never thought I'd see the day I was going to cry over you, Klavier."

"Ema?" Gumshoe pokes his head into the room. "The nurses are here for the next check-up. You okay if they come in?"

"I'm good." Ema releases her bag, straightening her jacket and turning to the door. "Introduce me to these people I'm not supposed to shoot, and then you go get a nice dinner."

Gumshoe's hand on her shoulder is comforting as Ema slides out of the room to meet the nurse, who had looked a bit perturbed at the easy way she talked about shooting someone. She worries a little bit about leaving the patients alone—she told Trucy she wouldn't—but before Gumshoe is done with his introductions Prosecutor Debeste is sliding by them and into the room, face a mask of grieving horror even before he sees the wounded.

Ema suspects she's going to have a long night ahead, so she just smiles at Sebastian, focuses on learning what Gumshoe is telling her, and falls in at attention at the door.

What happens will happen, and they'll all deal with the outcome together.

XXX

Apollo runs, and as he runs he follows the singer's advice. The pain in his chest rises, becoming a constant burning ache. If he were just trying to follow that, he doesn't think he would be able to get any sense of direction anymore. (If he were just following that, he doesn't think he would have been _able_ to go forward, eventually, but he doesn't like to contemplate losing.)

There is more than that to follow, though.

Despite his expectations, there is _so_ much more, and if Apollo stops to dwell on it he won't be able to focus on moving forward. Since that's what he needs to do, he forces himself to simply accept the inexplicable—the _impossible—_ and follows the threads that his friends offer.

— _wake up and tell me how ridiculous all this is—_

He will probably end up talking to Athena about how ridiculous this is whether he wants to or not, and it certainly _is_ ridiculous. He's actually smiling a bit as he turns at the feel of lips against his forehead, following them through the next door.

— _don't make me have to go figure out how to steal a soul—_

How _would_ someone go about stealing a soul? Since they're something that apparently really exists, Apollo supposes they could be stolen. And Kay, of all people, would figure out how to steal one. Would someone have to prosecute her for a crime if she did? Would it be some kind of extreme identity theft? Shaking his head, Apollo follows the breath of cold air that caresses the back of his neck, climbing a ladder out of the belly of a tall ship and emerging out in the middle of an empty football field.

— _miss you, Polly—_

He hears Trucy's voice more than any of the others. Is she talking to him the most, or is it just easier for him to hear her? Whatever the reason, he follows her, chasing down her voice, the caress of her fingers against his hand. He outruns Von Karma before the man is more than an echo of a cane, chasing the unmistakable tug of Trucy's fingers on his horns.

— _scientifically speaking, you_ probably _can't hear me—_

Will he remember all this when it's said and done? Will he be able to tell Ema that he _had_ heard her? Or will he forget all this, have it washed away in the hurts of his physical body once he escapes? He will _try_ to remember, at least, to give Ema a little something back for the breath of wind that gives him the courage to jump from a butte onto an invisible glass slide that takes him down into a shopping mall filled with sounds but no people.

— _p-please live, Klavier will be_ devalued _if you don't live—_

The words give him a lifeline to cling to as he fights his way to shore from a storm-tossed bay, the tears that fall against his skin warm instead of cold, guiding him as he crawls from the shallows into a cave. The cave soon becomes an underground tunnel, graffiti on the walls, and Apollo knows that he's getting close. He can feel it in his ragged breathing, in the way everyone's words echo more loudly, in the way their touches resonate through his whole being.

— _gonna be all right, pal—_

Damn right he will be. He's going to be just _fine_ , and he emerges blinking from the darkness of the tunnel into... somewhere he hasn't been in months.

Somewhere he knows far too well, and his heart seems to stop in his chest. _Here_. Of all the places in the world—afterworld—for him to end up, why _here_?

"Because it's a part of you. Because you brought it with you when you came." The voice that answers his unspoken question is horribly, terribly, beautifully familiar.

The GYAXA Space Center lobby is brightly lit, all silver and metal and soaring open spaces, completely different from Metis' lab. It is designed to inspire, to awe, and it did just that when Apollo and Clay were younger. As he grew up, as it became just the place that Clay was going to work, it became something else. It became a place of calm, of camaraderie, one of the few places in the world Apollo felt he really _belonged_.

He hasn't been back since he investigated Clay's death, scraping his friend's blood off the floor, not quite imagining it was real.

"I imagine you've seen some other places here that you brought with you." Clay moves forward, his right hand reaching towards Apollo and then stopping. He looks just like he did in life—is wearing his GYAXA uniform, though Apollo knows the uniform jacket is currently hanging in Apollo's closet, hastily tailored down so that it fit Apollo's frame when he went to act as pall-bearer at Clay's funeral. "That Agency of yours?"

Apollo hesitates and then gives a brief, tense nod. "I think I ran past it. There was a crazed ex-teacher chasing me at the time, so I didn't get a good look, but..."

"Yeah. You'll probably hit another place or two that are yours on your way out. But, on the plus side, that should be about _all_ you hit." Clay's arms are hugged across his chest. "You're really close to the exit now."

"Is that why you're here?" Apollo's voice feels strange and distant. "Because I'm almost to the end?"

For one brief, terrified moment Apollo thinks maybe Clay is here to _stop_ him. Maybe Clay is here to _punish_ him, for succeeding in his dreams while Clay lost his.

The moment passes, and shame replaces the terror as Apollo studies his best friend. Of course Clay isn't here to hurt him. Clay would never do something like that.

"Oh, little wolverine." Clay reaches out again, and this time he doesn't stop himself, his hand falling heavily on Apollo's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry about everything—about not being able to catch up to you until here, about... about everything last year—"

Apollo shakes his head, though he also leans into Clay's touch—reaches out with one trembling hand and grabs hold of Clay's GYAXA jacket. "You lied to me. You lied to me, and then you _died_ , and now you're _here_ and... what am I supposed to do about this?"

Clay winces. "There aren't enough _sorries_ in the world to cover how I feel about lying to you. I just did what I thought I had to do, and it wasn't supposed to turn out the way it did, but I still... that wasn't how I wanted things to end, 'Pollo."

"I know." Apollo does. He has been handling this, really. He and Athena have had far too many quiet, tip-toed conversations about this—about grief, about loss, about lies and what they mean to a relationship. (Trucy has held him too many times while he cried. Once was too many, but then there were the holidays, and then there was Clay's birthday, and every time it seemed like Apollo couldn't handle things anymore somehow she was there, ready to hold him up. Hopefully he will be able to do the same for her one day.) "I—"

He doesn't have much time. His chest is still burning, and he still has a place that he is supposed to _go_ , something he is supposed to do.

But surely he can take a moment here first. Allowing his trembling muscles to relax, Apollo puts his arms around Clay and buries his head against his friend's shoulder. "I missed you. A lot."

"I know." Clay hugs him back just as tightly. "I've been watching. I'm still pretty new to all this spirit stuff and just learning the ropes, but I've been trying to be there for you."

"I've been..." Apollo hesitates, not wanting to say anything that isn't entirely true. "Trying really hard not to think about if you'd be here. If I'd get a chance to see you. If we'd... get a chance to properly say goodbye."

"I was wondering if I should come. If I'd be helpful, or if it'd..." Clay hesitates. "I know you. I know you're stubborn. But I also know... I didn't want you to get distracted from what you were doing."

Apollo's fingers curl, digging into Clay's jacket, holding on tight. "I'm glad you came. And I won't... I'm not going to give up."

"Of course you aren't." Clay gives a little laugh. "I'm sorry I ever doubted you. My little wolverine doesn't give up for anything."

"I don't. I can't. Especially not..." Apollo pulls back a little bit, staring up at Clay with wide eyes. "They've been calling for me. Trucy and Athena, Ema and Detective Gumshoe, that crazy thief girl I told you about... even one of the other prosecutors. For _me_."

"Of course they have." Clay pats Apollo's shoulders, smiling as he does. "Who _wouldn't_ want you back?"

"Lots of people." Apollo swallows, his hands still holding Clay tight. "You know how my life's been, Clay. There's been _you_ , and..."

"And now you've got some others, too." Clay's right hand moves, ruffling through Apollo's hair. "That Trucy girl's holding so tight to you, I think everyone in the whole labyrinth's been hearing her. And if you've been hearing lots of other people, that's _great_. That means you've got lots of people cheering you on. Lots of people to help you out once you're back."

Apollo's left hand looses itself from Clay's jacket, moving to cover his chest. "I think... things're going to be a little hard once I get back."

"Yeah." Clay's voice is gentle. "I think you're right. But that'll be all right."

Apollo nods. "Because I'll be _fine_?"

"You'll be _so_ fine, wolverine." Clay ruffles Apollo's hair again. "I'll get to watch you for a long, long time to come."

"And when I'm super old, and really tired of being a defense attorney..." Apollo has to stop, to figure out how to breathe through the fire in his chest and the lump in his throat. "Then I'll get to see you again."

"I'll be right here waiting." Clay looks around. "Well, maybe not right _here_. We'll see how things've changed by then."

"Okay." Apollo squares his shoulders. Reaching up, he snatches Clay's hat off his head, placing it atop his own hair, cocked to the side to avoid his horns.

"Hey!" Clay reaches for the hat, and then just fiddles with the brim, turning it a little bit more to the right. He smiles. "You know what? This doesn't look half bad on you. Keep it."

"Really?" Apollo's eyes flick up and to the side, giving him a distorted view of the hat brim.

"Yeah. A little bit of extra protection doesn't hurt, given who and what I've heard is chasing you guys."

Apollo groans. "It's really, really unfair."

"It is, and I'm sorry." Clay grimaces. "But hey, at least you've got the good ghost squad on your side?"

Shaking his head, Apollo gives a weak laugh. "Our lives have gotten weird."

Clay's expression flickers, a flash of pain that's quickly covered. "They very much have."

Except they aren't both _lives_ anymore, and Apollo didn't mean to hurt his friend. Reaching out with his right hand, he snags Clay's fingers. "So... as a member of the so-called Good Ghost Gang... do you have any cool powers?"

"Well..." The smile that blooms on Clay's face bodes trouble. "Have you ever wanted to feel what it's like to be in zero gravity?"

"Not really. I like my feet on the ground, as you know." Apollo rolls his eyes, though he can't quite suppress a smile. "But if that's your super special awesome power... I suppose I'd like to see it."

Holding tight to Apollo's hand, Clay drags them over to a box with a plaque on it that purports to be from one of the previous shuttle launches. "All right, let's both just sit on this."

Apollo does as he's asked, though he's starting to have second thoughts about this. "You remember I don't really like heights, right?"

"No, I've forgotten something that's been true for as long as I've known you and even _more_ true for the last two years." Clay's voice drips sarcasm. "Come on, 'Pollo. Trust me. If you don't like it, I'll return you immediately to solid ground."

Apollo doesn't make any more complaints, staying still, his center of mass planted on the center of the box. Clay sits next to him, his feet dangling over the edge so that he can touch the floor. "All right. On the count of three, I'm going to kick us off and we're going to float up. But I promise, everything's going to be all right."

"Clay, I'm not sure—"

Apollo doesn't get a chance for third thoughts, because Clay counts to three in the span of about half a second. Then Clay's feet leave the floor, and they are floating _up_ , not accelerating but also not _decelerating_ , the ceiling approaching at a leisurely pace.

"Annnd welcome to zero g." Clay grins. "Every action you make will have an equal and opposite reaction. And we're going to get an absolutely _great_ view of the horizon in about three... two... one..."

Apollo looks out the large plate glass window at a beautiful landscape, the sun either rising or setting over the edge of the world, it's impossible to tell. It _is_ a breathtaking view, and Apollo actually manages to forget that the floor is receding as he and Clay stare out together.

— _the best and brightest protege I could ever have asked for—_

Apollo knows that voice, and he shivers as someone touches his head, urging him to look up.

A rope dangles down from the ceiling, leading up into a pit of darkness.

"Go on, Apollo." Clay gives Apollo's shoulder a little shove, and the box tilts, bringing Apollo closer to the rope. "Go home."

Apollo hesitates, half tempted to leap over and gather Clay into a hug. He's not sure how that would affect their precarious perch, though, so instead he settles for squeezing Clay's hand tight. "Until we meet again."

"Damn straight, partner." Clay smiles, returning the pressure on Apollo's hand.

Then Apollo turns, fixing his eyes on the rope. He makes sure not to look down. All that matters is going _up—_ following that phantom touch, that phantom voice.

 _Keep calling, Mr. Wright._ The box tilts closer to the rope, and Apollo leaps onto it, holding as tight as he can with all four limbs before starting to climb, his eyes fixed on the dark, incongruous hole in the ceiling.

 _Because Justice is coming home._

XXX

Klavier loses Gregory partway through his climb.

He thinks of it as a _climb_ , but really it's just _movement_. Sometimes it is up, sometimes down; sometimes left, right, diagonal. The only constant is that he never goes _backward_ , and he always knows that he is moving _towards_ something.

He is wearing Gregory's hat again, the defense attorney having returned it to Klavier's head when he had a hard time finding his next chord to follow.

— _we're going to get through this together_ —

Athena held his hand while she said it, her words quiet—she is usually loud, but he's noticed if she gets _really_ upset she tends to speak very softly, perhaps to protect her ears. He can understand her, though, and her words, her hold, had guided him to the right, down a set of stairs that led into a thick, warm jungle.

— _a great thief doesn't like being disappointed—_

Kay touched his face, her hand soft where pain is starting to radiate down from his temples, and guided him onto an elevator. The door that had opened in front of him and Gregory opens behind them when they step off, disgorging them into what must be some kind of museum laboratory, artifacts from a hundred eras scattered here, there, and everywhere.

The discordant music touches his ears as soon as they step into the clutter of controlled chaos, and Klavier flinches back without meaning to.

Gregory sighs, reaching up to fiddle with a hat brim that isn't there. His hand hangs uselessly in front of his face for a moment before he looks at Klavier and smiles. "This one sure is persistent, isn't he?"

"Daryan is many... things." Speaking is becoming more difficult again, the pain in his head just as bad as it had been on the road where Dahlia cornered him. Even with the pain he can hear the others calling him, though, feel their touch, and that is what he tries to keep his focus on.

Another tortured cord flares out, and Klavier catches a glimpse of movement at the other end of the hall. Daryan's voice hums the start of their last Gavinners' hit.

"You need to keep moving. Keep following what they give you." Gregory gives Klavier's shoulder a little push, urging him away from Daryan. "You're doing just fine. Keep it up, and you'll be free before you know it."

"But..." Klavier can see Daryan now, a bloody, grinning, furious mess stalking slowly towards them. "I... _hilfe_..."

Gregory stands in front of him, staring hard into his eyes. "Let us do this for you. Let us help you, Klavier Gavin. For you and for those who love you."

Klavier takes a step back, in the direction Gregory had originally pushed him. He wants to argue. He wants to say that Daryan is _his_ problem, and he will finish it as best he can.

He doesn't want to face Daryan again, hear accusations and half-truths fall from his old friend's mouth. He doesn't want to see the wounds Daryan has acquired in his quest to hurt Klavier—hurt Apollo? Because Daryan wasn't injured the last time Klavier saw him...

"Klavier." There is pleading in Gregory's voice. "Please."

"You can..." Klavier speaks slowly, forcing his mind to supply the words that want to slip just out of reach. "Stop him? You'll be..."

"I'll be fine." Gregory doesn't seem to be lying as he lifts a hand to once more adjust the brim of a hat he doesn't have.

Klavier hesitates just a moment more, the sound of Daryan's music growing louder. Then he reaches up and removes the hat that Gregory had placed on his head, offering it back to the older man.

"Ah." Gregory reaches out and takes the proffered hat, settling it on his head so that the brim shades and partially obscured his eyes. "Thank you."

" _Bitte_." Klavier smiles. "Be... safe?"

"Those are my words, son." Gregory's full attention is on Daryan. "If you need me before you find your way out, I'll be there. Now _run_."

Klavier runs, Gregory's jacket still hugged tight around him.

— _want to sing with me, Klavier?_ —

Once again Trucy's voice is a lifeline, a thread leading him up the stairs and into a blinding blizzard. He doesn't stop running, squinting his eyes and shielding his face with his scabbed fingers as he continues to press forward. Gregory had said he was close, and Klavier isn't going to make the man's sacrifice—Mia's sacrifice—be in vain.

— _see you standing in court again, because that's where you belong_ —

He will try. He will slog through knee-high mud; he will slide down a bank of near-liquid clay and land in a field of flowers under a bright sky. If _Ema_ , of all people, is willing to help him get through this, he can't possibly let her down.

— _Klavier, please,_ please—

There is nothing more coherent from Sebastian, but Klavier wouldn't expect it. There are fingers wrapped tight around his, tears washing over his hand, and Klavier follows them to a rock wall, climbs as they tug until he comes out at the top of the rigging of a tall ship. It is a beautiful sight, but he doesn't dare stay and enjoy it for too long. Who knows when other ghosts will catch up, and what price they will exact from him for passing through?

(He doesn't think he can pay much more. He is giving up _words_ , pushing through the pain, and what more can they ask of him than that?)

— _I'll be right here if ya need me, Prosecutor Gavin—_

So many people offering hands, voices, guidance, and Klavier would cry if he didn't need to keep moving. He _does_ cry, a little bit, though he tells himself it's just from pain and fear. (Despite all that's happened, despite how much he's failed and how badly this has gone, there are people here for him.)

His vision is so blurred, his senses so focused only on where the next thread will come from, that he doesn't realize where he is until a familiar voice calls his name. "Klavier?"

Klavier stops dead in his tracks, breathing hard. "Prof..."

There is more to that word. He _knows_ there is more to that word, but it slips through his fingers as he turns to see Professor Constance Courte, standing at her desk in the Themis art room, smiling at him just as she did a decade ago when he was her student. "Oh, Klavier. I'm glad I'm able to see you, at least for a little bit."

He shouldn't allow himself to get distracted. He should just keep looking for the way forward.

He takes a step towards her anyway. "Good... to see..."

She finishes closing the distance between them, reaching out to take his hands. (He is taller than her. The last time she did this, when he was still a child asking her advice on whether or not to finish his degree in Germany, _she_ had been taller than _him_.) "It's all right. You don't need to talk if it's difficult."

Shaking his head, Klavier gropes for the proper words. "I... _wollen_..."

"I know." One of her hands rises, cupping his cheek and stroking gently. "But it will be all right. I promise. We won't let it be otherwise. Your friends won't let it be otherwise."

Klavier leans towards the woman without meaning to, his body seeking the contact— _solid_ , far more solid than the phantom touches that are guiding him home. His right hand rises, fingers dancing from his temple to the center of his forehead. " _Me?_ "

"Of _course_ you'll be you." Expression hardening, Courte pulls him into a firm hug. (Klavier has seen this look many times, though it took him until Courte's death to realize what it was—to realize she is angry and frustrated _for_ them, the children she is sending out into a corrupt, broken system.) "This is you. This will _always_ be you."

"Without... words... I can't..." He can't do anything that makes him whole—can't sing, can't prosecute, can't write.

"They won't be gone forever." Constance's voice is certain, her breath warm and comforting against his skin. "You will be _you_ , and between us and all your living friends we'll make sure you're able to find a way to be comfortable. To be _happy_."

" _Danke_." Klavier holds her tight. "For... everything. For... the concert, at Themis. For..."

"For sending you back to be a vegetable? A useless burden on your friends and family?" The man's voice is familiar, and Klavier turns to face it, instantly separating himself from Courte and pushing her away.

Manfred von Karma smiles at him, and it is not a pleasant smile. Not that Von Karma has ever had a pleasant smile. Even when he was guest lecturing to the prosecutor's courses, Klavier found him a difficult man to understand, unpleasant and vicious. Despite Von Karma's remarkable win record, as a boy Klavier had found his harping on _perfection_ and _power_ deeply uncomfortable.

"You can feel some of what's happened to you. The closer you get to returning, the worse it hampers you even here." Von Karma's cane stabs towards the door of the classroom, though Klavier very much doubts that's the _actual_ way towards freedom. "You know you'll regret it. So why are you letting them drag you along for their own selfish ends?"

Hugging Gregory's jacket tight around his chest, Klavier shakes his head. "Not... selfish..."

"They are." Von Karma's smile somehow widens further. "They're using you to save their own flesh and blood from grief. They don't care if they turn you into an imperfect monster to—"

A piece of metal piping has somehow come to protrude improbably from the center of Manfred von Karma's abdomen. He looks down at it in confusion and horror, and then up at Klavier with eyes gone pure black with hatred.

Constance Courte steps out from behind Von Karma, circles around so that she is between him and Klavier. She holds a red pen firmly in her right hand, the tip pointed at Von Karma. "A tip, old man? Don't ever turn your back on a sculptor. Or a teacher."

Von Karma pulls the piece of metal from his belly and tosses it aside, seeming oblivious to the blood that trickles out of the wound. Shadows gather around him, reaching out.

Courte lashes out with the pen, scrawling broad strokes in the air. Red fire blooms where the pen passes, flashing out in straight, bright, burning lines.

Von Karma takes a step back. "You can't save them, Courte. You know as well as I do what the system's like—what it takes to get justice."

"I do. And I couldn't save them all. But _this_ one..." Courte flashes a smile over her shoulder at Klavier. " _This_ one I can help save himself, just like I did before."

"Courte—" Klavier takes a step toward her.

"I've got this, Klavier. You just listen for that thread. Follow it." Courte turns back to face Von Karma, who is gathering power around him again. "Be the beautiful, brilliant man I've always seen inside you. Live. _Love_. And right now—"

" _Laufen_." Klavier whispers the word to himself, closing his eyes, waiting for any hint of motion in the air, words at the edge of hearing, touches on his skin.

Who will it be this time? Who will guide him on these last few steps? Trucy again? Or—

— _don't want you to die like this, Klavier Gavin, so please—_

Phoenix Wright.

Not who he would have expected, not who he necessarily _wanted_ , but he will forever owe Wright an unpayable debt.

And if what Wright wants is for Klavier to go home...

The touch is on his left hand, just the faintest feathering of fingers against his wrist. Klavier lunges at it, feels a door on the wall where no door had been before, and charges through.

Wherever Wright wants to lead him, Klavier will follow.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter Five**_

"Trucy?" Phoenix pushes his way through the curtain into Apollo's hospital room, blinking bleary eyes as he looks for his daughter.

Trucy is curled up on Apollo's bed, her fingers touching his chest just above where the bandages protect the incisions delineating where Miles' specialist worked hard to put all the remaining pieces back together into a functional whole. When Phoenix walks into the room, Trucy immediately sits up, face contorted in shame and guilt as she scrambles off the bed. The expression is quickly hidden away behind her usual gentle smile, but it slices through Phoenix's heart all the same.

(Does she realize this? Would she have let her true feelings show if it had been anyone else, or would she have flawlessly played the part of confused and contrite relative when the nurse inevitably yelled at her? Phoenix doesn't know. His daughter has learned misdirection and expectation management from too many people, himself included, and has excelled in all those lessons.)

"Trucy..." Phoenix sighs as he repeats her name, waiting for her to straighten her clothes.

"I was careful, Daddy." Trucy smooths her skirt, coming over and wrapping her arms around him in a quick hug. "Don't worry. I made sure I wasn't going to hurt anything."

Phoenix pulls her back in when Trucy would have moved away, wanting to hold her, to provide some comfort even if he knows it's going to be precious little. "I trust you not to hurt anything. But you aren't supposed to be here right now. You're supposed to be sleeping."

Trucy's jaw sets, a look of stubborn determination that she learned from... well, the list is far too long. Himself? Miles? Ema? Apollo? "Why? It's not like you're going to make me go to school tomorrow."

"No, I am not going to make you go to school tomorrow." He can only imagine the phone calls that would result from such a stupid action. "But if you don't sleep, _you're_ going to get sick. And that's not something that's going to help anyone."

"I'm not going to get sick." Trucy's tone is more sulky than determined now.

Phoenix leans down so he and Trucy are closer to eye level. "Look, Edgeworth went to the trouble of getting us the rooms. We should actually use them for a little bit, yeah?"

Trucy shakes her head. "I don't want to leave them alone. Ema's got to watch the doorway, Gumshoe's sleeping like a rock, 'Thena was up until two and pretty much asleep on her feet when I sent her back to the rooms. Kay's out doing... stuff, Prosecutor DeBeste and Prosecutor Blackquill went to sleep in their own beds 'cause they've got case stuff to work on tomorrow, Uncle Miles is _still_ out working..." Trucy throws her hands up in the air, having apparently gotten sick of counting off people. "That means I need to stay with them."

"You haven't slept at all." Phoenix rubs a hand over his eyes. "I've gotten a few hours. _You_ go back to the rooms. Sleep for at least three hours. Then, if you want, you can come back and I'll go get us breakfast."

Trucy hesitates, and Phoenix studies his daughter with an expression of mock indignation. "What? Don't you think I'm as good at keeping people company as Gumshoe is?"

Trucy doesn't hesitate before shaking her head and smiling. "He's better company, but I guess it'll be okay if you watch them. You're at least more likely to talk than Uncle Miles."

"That is very true." Phoenix takes his daughter's hands in his. "So does this mean you'll go get some sleep?"

Trucy draws in a deep breath and heaves out an even deeper sigh. "I guess so. Though you promise you'll stay? And talk to them? And let them know we're here waiting?"

Phoenix nods. "I promise."

"And you won't leave them alone, and if something happens you'll call me _right away_ and I'll be here before you can say _race you_." Trucy pulls away, moving back to Apollo's bed. "Here that, Polly? Soon as you're awake, I'm gonna be right here." Darting across the room, she wraps Klavier's hand in both hers and squeezes tight. "If you guys need us, we're _all_ going to be right here."

Stepping reluctantly away from the bed, Trucy allows Klavier's hand to slide free of hers. His fingers fall limply to the sheets, still and lifeless.

Phoenix puts a hand on Trucy's shoulder as she walks by. "It's going to be all right, Trucy. I promise."

"I know, Daddy." Trucy offers him a tired smile, her eyes bloodshot and swollen as she looks up at him. "Things are going to be just _fine_."

She hugs him as she whispers Apollo's catch-phrase, making it hard for Phoenix to tell if there was bitterness in her voice or just exhaustion.

Then she's gone, ducking out through the curtain, and Phoenix sighs, eyes moving from one side of the room to the other.

There's really no question where he'll start, though.

There is a chair pulled up next to Apollo's bed, and Phoenix settles himself into it, feeling older than his years. "Hi there, Apollo. It's, ah... it's been a day."

Apollo's breathing seems to be faster and harsher than it was earlier in the evening—well, yesterday. Yesterday by several hours now, and Phoenix rubs a hand over his eyes again. There aren't any alarms going off, though, and the nurses haven't said anything about there being a problem, so _probably_ it's all right? Hopefully it's all right. "You know, if you wanted a salary renegotiation or some days off, we could have talked about it. Actually, no, you probably would have spent all day chasing me around while I dodged the issue, but..."

Apollo continues to breathe, a steady, determined movement of his chest.

"I, uh..." Phoenix looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap. "I don't think I've been very fair to you. When we first met, I... wasn't in the best place in the world. I kind of fucked up. A lot. But you always just... rolled with it. When I needed you—when _justice_ needed you—you've never backed down. You were a little rough around the edges, but you had the fire. The drive. The _smarts._ And maybe I took some of that for granted. Maybe I haven't told you how amazing your work is, and how much I appreciate everything you've done for me and for Trucy. If I did, I'm sorry. I never...

"There are some things I haven't told you. Things you really deserve to know." Phoenix reaches out slowly, allowing his fingertips to rest against Apollo's wrist. "I promise, if you wake up, I'm going to tell you. I'm not going to keep secrets anymore, for both our sakes."

Apollo just continues to breathe, and is that a little frown of concentration on his face? A little wrinkle on his brow like when he's desperately thinking in court? Or is that just wishful thinking?

"If I've never said it, let me say it now." Phoenix shifts his hand, his fingers brushing over Apollo's forehead—over where the surgical staff washed out the gel holding his horns up, so that the hair sits flat and soft against his head. "You're the best and brightest protege I ever could have asked for, Apollo. And Trucy and Athena and I are going to be waiting for as long as it takes to get you back."

Apollo's eyes move under their lids, a definite twitch up and then to the side. Is he dreaming? If he is, hopefully it's a good dream. (If he is, does it mean that there has been no brain damage due to poor oxygenation, as the thoracic surgeon had worried there might be?)

When there's no further movement after sixty seconds, Phoenix sighs and turns away, to the other bed.

"Gavin." Phoenix's steps are heavy as he walks to Klavier's side, his chest feeling too tight. "I have never, ever wanted this, you know. Even after..."

Phoenix has to stop, to close his eyes and give himself a moment to breathe, even though every breath tastes of hospital sterility.

He and Klavier have talked since... everything. He and Klavier have had some decent times, even. The last Christmas party was... not a disaster. (Given that the Phantom case had ended not two weeks before Christmas, asking it to _not be a disaster_ when Apollo was grieving, Athena still recovering, was about as much as they could hope for.) Klavier has apologized, and Phoenix has forgiven him.

Forgiven him for helping his brother. Forgiven him for _loving_ his brother, even after all Kristoph had done. And though thinking of the days right after he lost his badge still _hurts—_ will never _not_ hurt—Phoenix would desperately like for them to both put it behind them.

"I don't want you to die like this, Klavier Gavin. I've _never_ wanted you to die, not really. You've been trying your hardest in a system that seems to be brutally efficient at breaking down any sense of morality a person has. You _care_ about finding the right culprit. About keeping people safe. About seeing _justice_. And _this_..." Phoenix waves a hand bitterly. "We can't let them win. We can't let them just _eliminate_ everyone who's trying to stand in their way."

He is breathing heavily again, remembering how Miles has looked all day—distant, angry, _hurt_.

Klavier's fingers are still pointing upward, and Phoenix places his hand over them, holding tight as Trucy had. "So please. For Trucy. For Edgeworth. For Apollo. For _me_. Fight your way through this."

There is a definite twitch of Klavier's fingers against his, and Klavier's breath stutters in his throat—an attempt at speaking?

If it is, it's not repeated, and after a few seconds Phoenix lets go.

Moving the chair into the center of the room, between the two beds, Phoenix pulls out his phone. "So, since Trucy wants me to keep talking for a few hours and I am not that interesting a speaker, we're going to see what I can find. Or see if I can actually find anything to read to you. Trucy swears that I can get onto the Internet via this thing—though I guess I'm not supposed to with all the medical equipment. Oh, well. Edgeworth says that he put books on it through some kind of Swindle app, but last time I tried to find either the internet or the books Athena had to save my phone. It took me an hour to convince her to give it back. So you might just end up listening to me talk about how I'm trying to find the things that might actually be interesting..."

XXX

Apollo climbs his way out of the darkness, and for a moment he thinks he's made it out of the labyrinth. He can taste something in his throat, a dry, tingling feeling that reminds him of both times he was hospitalized during the Phantom case. He can _feel_ something sitting over his face. His chest _burns_ , each breath _aching_ , throbbing lines seeming to bisect his upper body.

But when he lifts a hand to his face, there is nothing actually there; when he blinks his vision into focus against the glare of the lights, it isn't a hospital that he can see.

He's standing in court, poised behind the defense's bench.

And across from him is Klavier Gavin, looking just as confused and disoriented and pained as Apollo feels.

Apollo doesn't think before acting. He simply launches himself towards Klavier, first attempting to scramble over the bench and then, when that proves to be a _terrible_ idea, running around it.

Klavier's eyes focus on him, track his movement, and before Apollo has gone more than three steps Klavier is moving, too, coming to meet him.

It feels strange to be standing in the center of the courtroom, where no one is supposed to go. The whole day has been a series of strange events, though, and if this is really Klavier...

"He..." Klavier trails off after the first muttered syllable, his right hand moving to his head.

"Hey." Apollo isn't sure exactly what Klavier had been intending to say—was that the start of an annoying _Herr Forehead_ , a more formal _Herr Justice_ , an attempt at the personal pronoun _he_? "Is this, uh... this..." Speaking is surprisingly hard when your chest doesn't seem to want to work well, but Apollo's going to manage it. "Really you?"

Klavier nods, and his hand reaches out, crosses the invisible barrier separating the defense's half of the court from the prosecution's.

Apollo reaches out, too, half-expecting to feel resistance, some kind of invisible force-field, but his hand is able to easily grasp Klavier's. "Are you... okay?"

Klavier hesitates and then gives his head a shake. He points hesitantly at Apollo.

Apollo's right hand rises to touch his chest. "I think... I'm going to... regret waking up. For a while. But I'll... be fine."

A small, fond smile turns the corners of Klavier's mouth up.

"That's a..." Apollo finds himself swaying on his feet, and adjusts his stance. Trying to deepen his breathing just makes his chest hurt more, and he finds himself leaning forward, using a hold on Klavier's new trench-coat to keep himself upright. "Nice... jacket."

"Da... nks." Klavier shifts, taking a better hold of Apollo with his right hand. When he seems certain Apollo is stable, he reaches up with his left hand to touch the brim of Apollo's borrowed hat. " _Wunder_..."

"Yeah." Apollo reaches up to touch the brim, smiling as he does. "This whole thing has been... really weird and I can't wait... for it to be done, but... some parts... were nice."

" _Ver... zei... hung._ " Klavier speaks slowly, as though each syllable costs him.

Apollo frowns. "I still don't speak German."

Klavier's eyes widen, and Apollo tightens his grip on the other man, watching in confusion as Klavier's whole expression seems to crumple in frustration and fear.

"Hey. Hey, it's okay. It's _fine_." Apollo's not sure exactly what he's saying is fine, but whatever it is, they _will_ make it fine.

"I'm... sorry." Klavier lifts a hand to his temple again, pressing hard. His whole body is shaking with the effort of... what? _Speaking?_ "You're... hurt."

And maybe Apollo shouldn't be so surprised that speaking can be hard, because his own voice seems to want to get lost in the fight for breath. "Not... your fault."

Klavier opens his mouth, stutters out a few syllables that don't seem to actually form words in either of his languages, and then just pulls Apollo into a full-body hug.

Apollo stiffens, temporarily at a loss for what to do—for how to _react_.

Then he feels Klavier trembling, a tiny but unmistakable shiver, and he hugs him back just as tightly. "We're close. We'll go... together. Follow... the threads. We'll be... just _fine_."

Klavier doesn't try to speak, just nods, holding Apollo a little tighter before breaking the embrace and stepping back. He doesn't let go of Apollo, though, providing him the support that he needs to stay stable.

Someone begins clapping, a slow, mocking echo of sound throughout the courtroom.

Apollo whirls to face the judge's bench, one hand pressed hard to his chest as pain flares brighter. He doesn't recognize the man sitting with his legs up on the bench. The new enemy is wearing red leathers, but there are prosecutors' badges pinned to the left breast of his jacket.

The left side of the man's face is a mess of blood and gore, his eye no longer sitting quite right in the socket. The clapping man doesn't seem to notice as he smiles down at them indulgently.

"Such a pretty show." The man shifts, allowing his legs to drop down beneath the judge's bench, leaning both elbows on the wood. "So touching. Brings a tear to my eye." Lifting his right hand to his good eye, the man flicks away a drop of liquid.

Klavier recognizes the man. Apollo can tell from the way he watches him, wary but also resigned.

They're so close. They're so damn _close_ , and Apollo isn't going to let anyone stand in their way. He tries to listen for the next thread even as he watches their enemy with minute attention, waiting for the muscle tick that will give away impending attack. Drawing as deep a breath as he can, gagging on the taste of blood and the flare of fire through his chest, Apollo snarls out his response in as loud a voice as he can manage. (It isn't loud or impressive, but he _tried_ , and he'll work with what he has.) "Who... the fuck... are _you_?"

The man seems to contemplate his answer for two, perhaps three seconds. Then he smiles. "Your death and damnation."

That's all the warning he gives before attacking. His right thumb flips down, the motion of someone fiddling with a lighter. Apollo starts to move, Klavier following his lead a millisecond later.

Fire blooms out from the man's hand, and Apollo watches it come, already knowing they're too late. They weren't fast enough. They're too hampered by their connection to their bodies, by the injuries they've taken. They're going to get burned.

A jangling series of notes fills the air, and suddenly there is someone between the fire and them.

No, not one person— _two_. One is someone Apollo hasn't met yet, a man with his hair tied up in a strange little queue at the back. He is wearing a grey suit jacket, and the remnants of a half-charred scarf dangle from around his neck. Half-charred is a good description of the _whole_ man, actually, clothing and skin both looking like they've been through a bonfire. He catches the ball of fire that the crazy prosecutor has tossed at them, deflecting it to the left, where it consumes the defense's bench in cheery orange flames.

The other man who appears is the musician Apollo met—the one who told him to bring a message to his mother. He smiles at Apollo and tilts his head down, hat shading his features as he continues to play. Blood stains his shirt in several places. Apparently his battle with Daryan wasn't as simple a victory as Apollo had hoped.

"Byrne." Red-leather is standing at the prosecutor's bench, hatred shining from his good eye. "Get out of the _way_."

"Never." Byrne turns just enough to give Apollo and Klavier a wink. "Carry on, boys. Ignore us over here."

Apollo wants to protest. He wants to turn to the musician and demand a _name_ , an _explanation_.

But he needs to get home.

He needs to _live_.

So he accepts the assistance they're offering him. He turns away from the battle, eyes scanning frantically for their next thread. He allows the music that is playing to drown out the sounds of burning, the screech of a giant bird, and he _listens—_

— _stupid thing seems to think I have a password—_

Apollo grins. That is most definitely his boss, the frustrated, quick patter of words an indication that he's fighting with something mechanical. He turns to the sound, and finds himself facing the courtroom doors.

Klavier turns with him, continues to offer him support as Apollo's breath rattles and wheezes in his throat.

Together they head for the exit.

— _ah, here we go. We have a scintillating choice of "Remedial Trial Law", "Les Miserables", and "Crime and Punishment". Jesus, Edgeworth—_

The words get louder the closer they get to the door, but the pain also intensifies, and Apollo finds himself clutching at his chest, just barely resisting the urge to claw at his clothes in an attempt to make the pain _stop_.

Klavier begins to sway, just a little, his steps no longer quite so certain. His eyes have lost their focus, his attention drifting from the door to the other combatants that have appeared in the room. Apollo digs his fingernails into Klavier's shoulder when the man tries to stop, transfixed by Daryan once more dueling musically with Apollo's stranger.

They're close. They're going to _make it_ , even if it means punching every damned evil ghost here in the face.

They don't have to, though. All they have to do is keep walking, because Metis Cykes is directing an army of flower-robots against Aristotle Means; Constance Courte is having some kind of light versus lightning duel with Manfred von Karma; Clay is grinning and waving him _forward_ , and—

They're so _close_. Just three or four steps, but Dahlia Hawthorne is suddenly occupying that space, her face transformed into a demonic visage that makes Apollo wish he had one of Jinxie's charms. She reaches out, hair and hands in tandem.

Klavier shoves Apollo to the side—shoves him _forward_ , around Dahlia, so that his shoulder slams painfully against the closed door, the spike of pain making him forget how to breathe.

— _Apollo?—_

Mr. Wright's voice is a thunderclap, filling the space around them, drawing Apollo's attention unerringly to the door.

— _Apollo, can you hear me? If you can hear me—_

He can hear.

He can _feel_ , the weight of a hand against his cheek, the cold rush of pure oxygen past his nose and mouth.

He can _hear_ , the beeps and blips of medical equipment still far too familiar from the Phantom case.

He doesn't have to open the door. It opens on its own, swinging away from him, and Apollo tumbles forward into darkness.

Into his own body, disoriented and damaged, but that's not going to stop him from doing what he needs to do.

XXX

"Apollo?" Phoenix slides his phone into his pocket, moving over to Apollo's bedside. Apollo's breathing his become steadily less... well, _steady_. There still aren't any alarms going off, but Phoenix can see and hear the difference in the ragged breathing. Apollo's eyes move frantically under his eyelids, and Phoenix reaches out slowly to touch his protege's face. "Apollo, can you hear me? If you can hear me—"

Apollo's eyes fly open, and he gasps in a sharp, ragged breath that quickly becomes the most painful, debilitating attempt at coughing Phoenix has ever seen. Alarms start blaring, and Phoenix glances frantically around at the medical equipment, not sure which ones are going off.

Athena ducks through the curtain and into the room. "What happened? Ema's making sure the nurses are coming, but—"

"K—" Apollo's fingers twitch towards Phoenix, his eyes frantic even as tears stream down his face and each breath seems like a paroxysm. His lips continue to move, but Phoenix can't hear anything more.

"Klavier?" Athena clearly can, and her eyes flick from Apollo to Klavier. "He's right here, 'Pollo. He's—"

A second set of alarms begins blaring, from the other side of the room, and Phoenix takes a step back, already pressing himself against the wall and out of the way.

Nurses begin pouring into the room—one, two, three, four—each looking harried.

 _Ema had to check them out, make sure they were okay._ Phoenix's stomach seems to twist on itself.

The doctor on duty follows the nurses. She isn't one of Miles' specialists, and she looks about as tired as Phoenix feels. Her eyes flick over the readings surrounding Apollo. "Catherine, get him to calm down and stop coughing. Sedate if you need to."

Then she turns her full attention to Klavier's bed, her lips pursing. "I need mannitol and atropine stat, and get our visiting neurologist on the line."

Athena turns ghost-white, her hands moving to cover her ears.

The doctor turns at Athena's gesture. "Visitors out. Now."

Apollo has managed to lift his hand to his face, is pawing ineffectually at the oxygen mask while one of the nurses attempts to sit on him without compacting his chest.

Athena's eyes move to Apollo, her lips turning down into a frown. "Klavier? Call Klavier? He's right here, Apollo. He's safe. He's..."

Athena's words trail off, her pale face somehow becoming even paler. (They can't say either of them is _fine_ , not right now, though the word lingers there on the edge of awareness.)

Apollo's frantic pawing at his mask had stilled when Athena said Klavier's name, his eyes staring in Athena's direction, though Phoenix is fairly certain Apollo can't actually see much around the nurses swarming over him. When Athena says Klavier's right here, Apollo's head moves in a limp, pained shake, and he begins fighting with the mask again. His lips continue to move, blue and soundless, his chest heaving with the effort of each breath.

"Klavier needs..." Athena shakes her head, tears filling her eyes again. "Apollo, you're confused, just let—"

The nurses who aren't fighting with Apollo begin converging on Phoenix and Athena, herding them towards the door. There isn't much time left to act—to try to make Apollo relax.

Drawing in a deep breath, Phoenix projects his voice as though they were in court, as though this were his final decisive piece of evidence. "Klavier Gavin, if you have _any_ say in whether you survive this or not, then you _keep breathing_. You come _back_ to us. For Trucy. For Miles. And Apollo. And for me."

(If only one of them is going to make it, Phoenix would choose Apollo a thousand times over Klavier Gavin. The knowledge is there like a hot weight in his chest, but it doesn't change what he would do.)

"Klavier, please." Athena's voice cracks, and there are tears starting to stream down her face. "Please, you have so many people here waiting for you—"

Then a nurse who might as well have been a linebacker is standing in front of them, one firm hand on Phoenix's shoulder, one on Athena's. They don't fight as they're steered out through the curtain, deposited next to a rigid, stone-faced Ema.

Disturbing the doctors at work isn't going to help either of their patients, so Phoenix puts an arm around Athena's shoulder, holds out a hand for Ema to take, and hopes with all his heart that they've done enough.

XXX

Hands reach for his throat, squeezing tight; hair wraps around his wrists, slashing and binding.

Klavier doesn't fight. He's not sure he could if he wanted to, his sense of the world feeling distant, off-kilter.

He's done what he needed to do. He's seen Apollo home. Whatever happens next doesn't matter.

"That's it?" Dahlia leans forward, her breath a cold hiss against his face. "No more struggling?"

Does she expect him to reply in words? If so, she's going to be waiting a long time, because words seem to have escaped him completely. He hums out a few notes for her, smiling benignly. If she expects him to be afraid, she's going to be sorely disappointed.

"Coward. Faithless, feckless man." Dahlia's hands tighten, her hair wrenching his arms out to the side.

And Clay Terran punches her square in the jaw.

If Dahlia feels any pain, it doesn't show on her face as she turns to the astronaut, mouth opening impossibly wide to bring forth a torrent of ear-rending sound. Clay falters, his right foot sliding back, his fist lowering just slightly.

A dark red tie loops itself around Dahlia's neck from behind, instantly pulling taut.

Dahlia's hands release Klavier's neck, moving to claw at the garrote around her own throat. The material of the tie seems unnaturally sharp and stiff, digging into Dahlia's flesh with grim persistence as Gregory Edgeworth pulls on the ends. "Let. Him. _Go_."

Another shriek of outrage echoes out from Dahlia, drowning out the sound of Daryan and another unknown musician. " _Mine._ He's _mine_. I will devour his soul and sing in his voice in Phoenix's dreams and wait for his friends and—"

A sword of fire slices through the hair entwining Klavier's right wrist. Mia Fey looks somewhat the worse for wear, her hair hanging in limp strands around her face, her suit torn and bloodied.

Dahlia screams again, and this time there is pain in the sound.

"Cousin." Mia snarls out the family relationship. " _Dearest_ cousin. You are _not_ going to win here today. Not even if I have to cut you limb from limb, a task I think I would enjoy."

Another slice of the sword burning in Mia's hands, and the hair entangling Klavier's left wrist is also severed. It continues to stick to him, writhing, attempting to slide its way up under the sleeve of Gregory's jacket.

The jacket sleeves constrict down tight against Klavier's skin, leaving no entrance for the grasping strands—ejecting those pieces that have managed to worm their way up.

Klavier looks down at his bloody wrists, at the hair now twining itself into knots on the courtroom floor. How did he come to be sitting down here? What's he supposed to do now?

"Come on." Clay's voice is strong, sturdy, certain—reminds Klavier immediately of Apollo as Clay loops a hand under Klavier's shoulder and tugs. "Where's your door home?"

"Home..." Klavier hesitates, then reaches for the door that Apollo stumbled through minutes before. All Apollo had done was touch it, and he disappeared in a flash of light, tumbling out of reach.

When Klavier touches the door, nothing happens.

"You have to _want_ it, son." Gregory still has his tie wrapped around Dahlia's neck, is hanging on for dear life as Dahlia and Mia duel.

Mia's cheek is bleeding, and her sword drips some kind of green-black ichor onto the ground from where she has injured Dahlia. "Reach for your threads, Gavin. You know how to do this."

Klavier closes his eyes, but all he can hear is the crescendoing battles surrounding him. Those notes are Daryan's—he would recognize them anywhere. That laugh is Manfred von Karma. That crackle is something burning because Sebastian was right, the monsters never _really_ go away—

"Klavier." Clay has a hand on each of Klavier's shoulders. "He told me about you. About how one thing he has to admire is how you don't run away from a situation, even when it's terrible. Even when it's going to be hard or it's going to hurt."

Klavier moves his hands so that they cover Clay's, the astronaut's skin feeling far too real.

"You won't be alone." Gregory's voice is still calm, somehow. "You're both taking a bit of us with you."

"And we'll be there when you need us." Courte turns away from von Karma, a shield of red burning at her back as she faces Klavier.

"So go on, rock star." Clay hugs him tight, an unexpected embrace. "Find your way home."

This time when Klavier closes his eyes, he is able to reach past the clash and clutter of the battle. He is able to feel his heart, beating too slow in his chest; see a flash of light, a glimpse of faces far away.

— _Come back to us—_

— _So many people here waiting for you—_

This time when he reaches out to touch the door, it swings open under his hand, and Klavier falls forward into all-encompassing darkness, hoping that those he's leaving behind will hear the silent _thank you_ inherent in his actions.

XXX

Apollo forces himself to sit still while the nurse takes his temperature, asks how his pain threshold is, changes his IV bag, and assesses the bandages over his chest incisions for what feels like the six thousandth time.

(They don't change his bandages this time. He is grateful for that. He doesn't like to see the mess of sutures and surgical staples that are holding him together.)

When the nurse has left, Apollo spends about five minutes sorting out all the lines that are leading to him. Some he will have to take with him—thankfully both the fluids and the pain medication are on the same pole (finally they have found one that _doesn't_ make him violently nauseous and disoriented). Some of the machines he will have to switch off, but he's gotten fairly familiar with them all over the last forty-eight hours, and he thinks he'll be able to manage without hurting anything.

Sitting up in bed, he carefully swings his legs over the side. Reaching out with his right hand, he grimaces and has to spend about three minutes just breathing while the pain in his chest spikes and diminishes again. Once he's certain he can reach out without crying, he does so, pulling the curtain that has been used to provide him some privacy open.

 _Of course I got the half of the room without a window._ Apollo carefully, slowly, settles his weight onto his feet. Once he's standing, he has to pull the supplemental oxygen mask on for about two minutes before he feels confident in his ability to make it to his destination.

Eight feet.

He just wants to cross eight feet and open two freaking curtains, and it's going to take him a half hour and probably all of his stamina for the day.

That's all right. He's _going_ to do this, and do it today.

Every step is agony. Every breath is torture, rocks grating together in his chest, and by the time he is pulling the curtain open around Klavier's bed he's light-headed.

There is a window on Klavier's side of the room. It had been kept shaded and closed until this morning, but apparently Prosecutor Edgeworth thinks the likelihood of them getting shot _again_ has gone down to the point where a little natural sunlight is permissible. Of course that sunlight doesn't actually reach Apollo on his little side of their island, but hey, it's nice to know it's _there_.

It's nicer to actually _see_ it, and if he weren't in danger of collapsing he would stand for a few minutes just soaking it in. As it is, he spares a happy glance at the window, gasps in another few ragged breaths, and heaves himself up onto the side of Klavier's bed.

It's a good thing that Klavier moves over, because Apollo would be sitting on the floor if he hadn't.

For several seconds all Apollo can do is tilt his head back, opening his airway as much as possible, and gasp in atmosphere that feels very, very oxygen-poor right now. While he's busy doing this Klavier's hand moves to the call button on the side of the bed, and Apollo has to mewl out a negation because he can't move his head enough to shake it without risk of passing out.

Klavier listens to him, at least. He doesn't actually put the button down, but he also doesn't press it, and after a minute or so Apollo is able to breathe well enough to relax into a more normal position.

Klavier looks terrible. There's really no other way to put it. His face is swollen, fading bruises in an array of yellow and purple overriding his natural complexion. There isn't any hair on his head, though at least that fact's mostly covered by the white bandages that are still swathing where they cut his skull open.

He studies Apollo with open, worried frankness until he notices Apollo is studying him back. Then he looks away, his body turning so that Apollo can't see much more than hospital gown and bandages.

Apollo would sigh, but that would be painful and waste too much breath. Instead he reaches out and takes Klavier's left hand in his, being careful of all the medical lines coming off each of them. Giving Klavier's hand a little squeeze, he waits for the prosecutor to turn and look at him again.

It's a long wait, but Apollo is definitely not making the trek back to his own bed anytime soon. (He might not be _able_ to make the trek to his own bed, and he hates the idea of having to wait here for one of the nurses to carry him back like a child. He is so _helpless_ right now.)

Eventually Klavier turns to face him, offering a strained, slightly lopsided version of his normal smile.

"Hi..." Apollo gasps out the breathless whisper, and then spends a good ten seconds after he says it trying not to hyperventilate. If he hyperventilates, he will almost certainly pass out. (He can't talk. He can't walk. He can't do _anything_ , and though Mr. Wright and Athena and Trucy keep telling him it's going to be all right, it's very hard to _believe_ them right now.)

Klavier closes his eyes, biting down on his bottom lip. Then he lifts his right hand, forming a tentative thumb's up.

When Klavier opens his eyes Apollo returns the gesture. "Though you... should try... talking. Neurologist... said..."

Klavier turns away again, his eyes closing once more.

There is silence between them for twenty, thirty seconds, Apollo's rasping, pained breathing the only noise in the room.

"You're... right." Apollo allows his head to settle back on Klavier's pillow, since Klavier seems to be doing better at the whole sitting-up thing than he is right now. "Screw... them. Don't know... how hard..."

He can't do it. He can't keep talking. He's going to drown on dry land if he keeps trying, his body unable to handle basic life functions anymore.

Klavier is leaning over him, frowning in concern. He squeezes Apollo's hand once.

Apollo squeezes back twice, trying to convey that he's really quite fine and there's no need to bring in the cavalry. Apparently after fifteen or twenty seconds he starts looking more fine, because Klavier sighs and settles back to look out the window.

"Do you... remember..." Apparently there is something very broken in Apollo's self-preservation instincts, because he's definitely going to try talking again.

Klavier turns to him once more, eyebrows raised in inquiry.

"There was..." Apollo pauses, and not _just_ because the sound of his agonized voice and the pain in his chest have made speaking difficult. He has a lot of memories from the last three days that don't actually make _sense_ , and he's not sure how to go about describing them. "Labyrinth...?"

The final word is a whisper so quiet Apollo doesn't think Klavier will have been able to understand it.

Except Klavier is sitting up ramrod straight, his eyes bright with emotion as he stares down at Apollo.

"I... thought..." Apollo hesitates, his voice cracking. There is one name that wants to come charging to the fore, but saying it seems unfair. "Was it... do you... remember?"

For a moment Apollo doesn't think Klavier understands—whether that's doesn't understand the words or doesn't understand what he's referring to, Apollo couldn't say, but both options are terrifying.

Then Klavier smiles again, a more _honest_ smile, and reaches towards Apollo's head. He adjusts a hat that isn't actually there and makes an _okay_ sign with his right hand.

Apollo lifts a hand to his head and smiles in return, though stupid tears are burning at his eyes. If Klavier remembers, then at least _some_ of it was real, right? He really _did_ see Clay.

And if that part was real, then maybe...

"I've..." Apollo has to be careful not to let emotion control his breathing if he wants to be able to talk, even using the broken, soft little voice that's been left to him by his injuries. "Been seeing... him. I think. In my... dreams."

Klavier hesitates and then gives a brief nod, adjusting the collar of a jacket that isn't there.

Apollo's hand clenches into a fist, but he keeps the word _speak_ locked behind his teeth. Attempting to talk and communicate has been driving _him_ crazy, and the only thing wrong with his words is the fact that his chest doesn't want to cooperate to form them. "You... too?"

Klavier nods, studying his hands.

"We're not..." Apollo forces his left hand to rise, swings his fingers in a circle by his shoulder since he can't quite get them up by his head head, though the motion still burns lines of pain through his chest.

Klavier points at himself and shakes his head; then he points at Apollo and spreads his hands in a clear _who knows?_ gesture.

Apollo raises his hand to the pillow, fully intent on hitting Klavier with it. The gesture is aborted halfway through because attempting to raise his hand above his shoulder is a _terrible_ idea, and he spends a half minute just forcing himself to breathe instead of whimper.

Klavier's fingers rub carefully at Apollo's shoulder, fingertips just barely grazing the skin. It would infuriate Apollo if it weren't about as much pressure as the sensitive skin of his chest can take, even so far removed from where the incisions criss-cross him like dark train tracks.

"Will you..." Apollo holds out his hand, not _quite_ stupid enough to try reaching up to grab Klavier's hand.

After several seconds Klavier's fingers slide into Apollo's, holding on tight again.

"I know... you hate... trying to talk." Apollo squeezes Klavier's hand. "But would... you mind... trying my... name?"

A flash of visceral loathing passes across Klavier's face, and Apollo is afraid he's said something wrong. If he made Klavier upset, they're going to have a very long and awkward wait until someone comes to help Apollo back over to his bed. Or Apollo could try walking over, he supposes, and see how far he gets before collapsing in an ignominious heap that Klavier will have to call in assistance for.

Then Klavier moves his free hand, finger pointing from his throat up to his head and back to his throat.

"Yeah." Apollo nods. "I... noticed. Just like... I'm sure... you've heard... my pulmonologist."

After a few seconds Klavier gives a reluctant nod.

"I'll probably... never have... the same lung... capacity." Apollo can feel sweat dripping down his face, pooling under his neck as the effort of speaking and breathing catches up to him. "But I... won't stop... fighting. And neither... will you."

For a moment Apollo thinks Klavier is going to argue with him. Or possibly just pull his hand free and turn toward the window.

Instead Klavier closes his eyes, his face contorting with effort. "A... port..." He trails off, giving his head a little shake as he opens his eyes.

" _Apollo._ " That wasn't the name that Apollo had thought Klavier would attempt, though maybe it makes sense. _Herr Forehead_ includes too many syllables and languages. "Is that... what you're trying... to say?"

Klavier shrugs, looking away.

"I know... it's not... the same. But I..." Apollo has to stop, trying not to gasp like a landed fish. "I can't... speak well... either. And I... want us both... to get better. To get... back in court. So... please?"

Drawing in a long, slow breath, Klavier studies his hands. " _A... poll..._ "

Apollo takes Klavier's hand in his, giving it a tight squeeze. The name is still garbled, the syllables a mushy mish-mash of two languages that Klavier seems to have no control over anymore. But it's clear enough what they are. "Yeah?"

Klavier shakes his head, mouth contorting with frustration as his free hand slashes down.

Apollo frowns. "You're not... happy?"

Klavier points at his neck, then his head, then Apollo's neck, before opening his hand in a gesture Apollo can't read.

"I'm sorry... I can't..."

 _He can't even say your name, little wolverine._ Clay's voice is a whispered thread, drowned out by the sound of Apollo's harsh breathing. _How do you think that makes him feel?_

"I can't... walk across... a tiny room." Apollo's eyes burn again, his soft voice made hoarse and almost incomprehensible. "Or speak... above a... whisper."

Klavier's eyes bore into his, and there is anger and frustration in them, coating a burning despair.

"Not... the same. But... doctors say... we'll _both_ get... better." Apollo squeezes Klavier's hand hard. "We won't... let them win. We won't... be silenced."

Gathering as much air into his lungs as he can—and it is a pitiable amount, his chest burning and aching as soon as he does _anything—_ Apollo lets it out in a hoarse scream. The cry likely doesn't even reach the door, and it triggers a coughing fit that sees stars dancing before Apollo's eyes, tears running freely from them as he tries to remember how to breathe.

" _Verdam_." Klavier holds his shoulders, muttering out syllables that sometimes _almost_ make words. " _Pol_ -lo. Bre."

Apollo laughs, which is _almost_ as bad as coughing, but smiling feels too good for him to stop. "That's... it. Yell... at me."

Klavier rolls his eyes, and his right hand slides across Apollo's forehead, pushing the loose strands of hair together into a semblance of their usual horns. "Fe?"

There are notes playing just on the edge of Apollo's hearing, a guitar that sounds nothing like Daryan's or Klavier's.

"That's right." Apollo reaches out to grasp the collar of Klavier's hospital gown. "We're gonna... be just... _fine_."

He thinks Klavier mutters something along with him, and maybe, just maybe, there are other voices just over the edge of hearing.

Klavier settles down next to him after that, and Apollo spends a few minutes just soaking in the sunlight and remembering how his lungs are supposed to work.

Then he starts making comments, goading as many answers out of Klavier as he can manage. It's probably the saddest, strangest, most incomprehensible conversation anyone's ever heard, but Apollo doesn't care.

They're alive.

The people who did this to them are likely going to regret ever being born by the time Edgeworth's done with them.

They have people who _care_ about them. Athena and Trucy, Mr. Wright and Mr. Edgeworth, Ema and Gumshoe, Kay and Sebastian—their little ward has seen what seems to be a near-constant stream of visitors. Apollo wouldn't have believed it, a week ago. (He still doesn't believe it, sometimes, but the evidence is there before his eyes, and slowly that is eroding away his certainty that their assistance must all be a dream.)

No matter how much time it takes them, they are both going to be fine, because Apollo's not going to settle for anything less.


End file.
